


Genetics, tea, and other such influences

by SnowHeart



Series: Genetics [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Character Study, I Don't Even Know, Q is a Holmes, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-13 05:01:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4508763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowHeart/pseuds/SnowHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamish Quinton Watson-Holmes was many things. Genius, jazz-lover, all powerful Quartermaster of MI6, tea-drinker, sharp-shooter, and without a doubt his fathers' son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hamish

**Author's Note:**

> So this little idea was born entirely of the fact that Q is wearing a wooly jumper in the latest trailer for Spectre. A jumper so amazing it is impossible he was raised by anyone other than John Watson. 
> 
> And then this happened... Enjoy I guess! X
> 
> (But really, go watch the trailer, it's true)

Hamish Quinton Watson-Holmes was many things. Genius, jazz-lover, all powerful Quartermaster of MI6, tea-drinker, sharp-shooter, and without a doubt his fathers' son.

His relationship to Sherlock was clear to see, unsurprising as he was the _genetic_ father of the two. Their profiles were strikingly similar; tall and skinny, all angles and bones; porcelain-pale skin; a curly mass of dark hair (the difference being Sherlock's efforts to keep it controlled, whereas Hamish was quite content to let it grow scruffy and wild). Both men also had a piercing gaze and a natural air of confidence, which when utilised together to gang up on his other father left John groaning in despair and allowing them to continue with whatever questionable activity they were doing.

What was more, he had inherited his father's brilliant mind, often considered by Sherlock to be his best feature. Hamish was a genius, no question, and this had been apparent from a young age. But where his father made it his business of know everything about people, Hanish had done the same with machines. Whether with computers or hardware, he was fluent in the language of technology, a talent he had used to make his uncle Mycroft's life very difficult on several occasions as a teenager. Of course, no one had ever been able to prove that he was behind that (which had just confirmed Mycroft's suspicions he was responsible.)

Unfortunately, the inherited genius came alongside a penchant for rule-bending as a means to an end, or, in other words, occasional complete disregard for the law. Where Sherlock broke into the odd flat to get what he needed, Hamish broke into the odd file. It was _this_ urge, not his technical prowess, that led him to hack MI6 aged sixteen, if only to demonstrate how terrible their security systems were. This act could have landed him with some serious charges and a long stint behind bars, but the _then_ -M had made a different call. Instead of charging him with treason, she had hired him as a junior techie in the Q-branch, and he never looked back. To this day, Mycroft swears he had nothing to do with it, and Hamish could never tell if he was lying.

 

But while it was true they shared no blood, John Watson was his father too (in every way that counted at least) and he had never once viewed Hamish as anything less than his son. John had been newly engaged to Sherlock when the baby arrived without warning at 222b, the accidental conclusion of Sherlock's only other attempt attempt at a relationship. Sherlcok had had no idea she was even pregnant until Hamish's mother, who had never wanted him, demanded they take him in.

It had been John who had taken one look at the squirming child with a shock of dark hair and refused on the spot to do anything but raise him as their own. For the second time in his life (although this time he was quicker on the uptake), John had fallen into instant and unconditional love with a Holmes. Or rather, a _Watson_ -Holmes. Sherlock had insisted, as he had insisted on the name Hamish, claiming that if the baby was getting his genetics, he should at least have John's name. And there hadn't been anything the doctor could say to that.

A name wasn't the only thing he shared with John. His love of jumpers and cardigans had been picked up from an early age, through a combination of the permanently terrible English weather and an endless stream of woollen birthday and Christmas presents. Sherlock's general disgust at this, and the fact his favourite jumpers often ended up the subjects of experiments made his fashion choice a matter of pride more than anything else, and a refusal to back down.

That too was a John-trait, he supposed, as was a general sense of national pride and patriotism. _"Queen and country"_ was how Sherlock had often described them, usually with a slight sneer, as if the very idea of serving your nation was ludicrous. _He_ may have been content to ignore any requests from Mycroft to aid the commenwelth (and refuse a knighthood on at least four occasions), but not Hamish. If John Watson was prepared to go to war for Britain, he would have been ashamed to do anything less. It just turned out that the war he chose was of a very different kind. A war of shadows and whispers and tiny lines of code dancing on his screens.

They had tried to stop him, of course. The life of any MI6 agent, especially one as gifted as Hanish, would be fraught with danger, and unlikely to be especially long. But that didn't matter to him. Not when there were puzzles to solve, lives to save and a country to serve. And besides, it wasn't like his parents had any leg to stand on in that argument. By Hamish's memory, he had been six when he first joined them on a proper case, and he had never been far away from danger since. He could never bare to be. One of his colleges in Q-branch (before he took over running it, of course) liked to tell him he had some sort of death wish, but Hamish knew that was far from the case. It was just his little internal compass with, like that of his father's, true north pointing firmly in the direction of trouble.

 

And then there were the things he shared with both his parents. It made sense he supposed, for two people to be in love and live together for twenty years, they had to have some traits in common, then pass them down to their son. Even two people as unconventional as Sherlock and John. His love for tea, Hamish reasoned was one of these things. The Watson-Holmes household was powered entirely by toast and earl grey, after all. Even now, with all the responsibility and status that being Q entailed, it was a running joke in the branch that England would fall if not for the regular refills placed thoughtfully on his desk throughout the day. Hamish privately thought that this was no joke at all, but a very scary likelihood.

His resolve had to be another. While Sherlock would eventually get what he wanted out of almost anyone, he happened to be living with the only man in London more stubborn than he was. John Watson was the definition of an immovable object when he wanted to be. Unfortunately for the two, their son grew to outstrip them both. When Hamish decided to do something, there was simply no stoping him, no room for compromise or even argument.

This skill turned out to come in very useful when dealing with the 00's and their general lack of respect. Whether it was ignoring his instructions over the comms or failing to return equipment in less than seven seperate pieces, they all fell in line one by one. Whether it was out of fear, reluctant fondness or grudging respect for the Quatmaster, each agent would never tell, but he supposed it didn't matter. Winning over the 00's was a miracle as far as Hamish (and the rest of MI6) was concerned, and he didn't spend too much time worrying about just how he had managed it. Well, winning over all of them except a certain agent with a knack for smooth talk, disobedience and resurrection.

There was something about James Bond that Hamish couldn't quite pin down, except for the sense that 007 had never really warmed to him. He had no choice but to trust Hamish, of course, with everything from CCTV reports to laying an illegal cyber trails across the country. But there was something hostile, almost predatory, he would occasionally catch in Bond's glances across the room or his voice through the earpiece.

Which was fine by Hamish, really. As long as Bond didn't get himself killed (permanently), he honestly couldn't care less about the man or his attitude. And if Hamish occasionally kept tabs on him during missions when it wasn't strictly necessary, or occasionally considered his outlandish suggestions for gadgets, then he was just taking extra initiative and being thorough in his job, that was all. _Really_.

 

When Hamish Quinton Watson-Holmes stopped to consider it, he was many things. He was his own man, his own unique person, but he was also his fathers' son. He had been told he had ended up with the best of both men who had raised him. To this day, it was the highest compliment he could imagine.

 

\--

(And after Silva, after the explosion and Skyfall, and a new M in office, and all the hurt and recovery that came with it, Hamish realised he had one more thing in common with his fathers. John had spent years in denial stubbornly ignoring what his heart was telling him, and it seemed his son was destined to repeat his same mistakes. Fortunately neither Hamish or John were too late to fix their mistakes. And as for Sherlock, well, his son seemed to inherit a love for a sharp-shooting blue-eyed soldier-boy, and all the dangerous beautiful chaos that followed in his wake.)


	2. What Kind of war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We like to say that orphans make the best recruits, but in reality every one of our agents becomes an orphan the moment they walk through our doors. You will be an asset: valuable, and therefore vulnerable. And you more than most, I am afraid."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I am very excited to announce that the story of Hamish continues! I'm going to aim for a weekly update, but it's just as likely I'll get over-excited and post early, or get writer's block and scream at my computer for a month so who knows?
> 
> Because of the way I plan to write, some chapters will be more Sherlock-based, others more Bond, and some revolving entirely around Hamish! Clearly, I own nothing but my OCs and ideas from either fandom.
> 
> Thanks for all the lovely support so far, and if you have any requests, ideas,or just want to say hi please let me know.

The door opened and Hamish didn't bother to suppress his groan. Of course his uncle was here. It was just what his day needed really; after a dawn arrest, hours looked in a small room without access to caffeine, and now 'The most dangerous man in London' had strolled through the door, bloody umbrella swinging and everything. Hamish snorted slightly at the thought; his uncle had long since lost the rights to that title. He was only seventeen, but could do ten times the damage Mycroft could, and they both new it. Unfortunately, the politician was failing to see the funny side of the situation.

"Really, Hamish?" His glare was icy. "I thought you'd put this childish nonsense behind you by now."

He just shrugged, not rising to the taunt. His uncle was one of the most powerful and manipulative men in the country, but his tactics could be downright juvenile at times. 

Especially when his family was involved.

Mycroft changed tact. "You are looking at quite serious charges, I must say. Possession of classified information, hacking into secure networks, intent to compromise national security measures, _fourteen_ counts of public vandalism-"

"As if you don't mess with the country's CCTV on a daily basis!"

Mycroft continued as if he hadn't heard the protest. "-and several instances of email tapping. They might even try and pin a charge of treason on you after your latest stunt. Quite a resume, for one so young."

"I don't need your help, Mycroft."

"Oh, I beg to differ, nephew dearest. If you were foolish enough to get yourself caught hacking into MI6, you are certainly foolish enough to require my assistance."

He groaned again. He should have expected this, Hamish supposed. National security was his uncle’s dominion, and it had only been a matter of time before he caught on to what he had been doing. "It's not my fault our nation's security systems are so poor. I've been in and out of the MI6 server half a dozen times in the last year, and no one noticed a thing, and I'm sure I'm not the only one. It was about time someone pointed out how crappy their security is."

His uncle raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. "Oh, so your activities were an act of _public service_ were they? Your duty to Queen and Country? Your father will be so proud."

He sat bolt upright at that. "You haven't told John, have you? Or Sherlock?"

There was an edge of panic in his voice, and Hamish briefly wondered what that said about him and his family, that the idea of his angry fathers could scare him where charges of treason had failed.

Mycroft smiled thinly. "Of course not. I have no desire to have to cover up your brutal murder at the hands of a war veteran. You have no idea of the paperwork involved in a task like that."

Hamish relaxed slightly. While he had no doubt that his _biological_ father would be angrier that he had been caught than anything else, John would certainly view this as very much ‘not good'. Sixteen years of being married to the consulting detective hadn't shifted his moral compass one bit. That was one of the things Hamish admired most about him, and also that he envied. His own opinion of the law was flexible at best, a trait he had no doubt inherited from the other chief role model in his life. He glanced up to see his uncle studying him with equal parts anger, disappointment, and, was that _amusement_?

“What?” he scowled, in no mood for Mycroft’s over-elaborate mind games.

"You have no idea how familiar this routine is for me. You know, your father, much like yourself, spent a great number of his teenage days hating me for getting him out of situations just like this. And you look more like him every day, right down to that glare. Although I am glad your activities are a little less... Shall we say, _self-destructive?_ ”

Hamish squirmed. He had no interest in a family history lesson, especially not one concerning that part of his father’s life. He knew about it, of course, but it was one of the things they simply never talked about. Not necessarily taboo just… avoided. There were several subjects like that, casting their shades across the family, and he had learnt how to avoid them. Hamish could ask John about the war, for example, but never the day he had been shot. Sherlock would (and frequently did) talk for hours about old cases, but certain names would bring out the shadows behind his eyes. Magnusson. Moran. Moriarty. It was simply better not to mention them at all. So quite why Mycroft was choosing to bring up one of those topics right now, unless it was a low blow designed to shame him, Hamish couldn’t imagine.

Something of his thoughts must have shown in his face because Mycroft shook his head. “You misunderstand me, Hamish. I never meant to insult.” (He spared a thought to wonder, yet again, if his uncle was somehow psychic.) “I only wished to say, the thing is you see, you are, in fact, family.”

Hamish frowned. Mycroft was floundering, struggling to find the words, and he was the most eloquent man he knew. Something was wrong here. “Mycroft?”

He ignored his nephew. “And family is supposed to stand by each other, I believe. I will Hamish, as much as I can, but I am afraid this time matters have been taken out of my hands all together.”

Now he was seriously worried. As far as Hamish new, nothing on British soil (and perhaps European either) was out of Mycroft’s hands. If it was a simple matter of getting his charges dropped, he would have been out of here already, so something else was involved here. Or rather someone else, someone who his uncle apparently answered to.

“Mycroft, what’s going on?”

The man gripped his shoulder, and then lent in close. “Listen to me.” He hissed into his ear, making Hamish’s mind race around the possibility of hidden microphones or recording equipment. “This is important. In precisely three minutes someone will come in here and make you an offer. I told them you were too young, but that sort of thing doesn’t matter to the people we are dealing with. You need to consider your answer carefully. This is an opportunity Hamish, I won’t tell you otherwise, and you have the potential to do great things. But whatever decision you make, consider the cost. Consider what you stand to lose as well as gain, because I don’t think you will get another chance to turn back after this. You’ve seen the battlefield your whole life, and now it’s time to choose just what kind of war you want to fight.”

“I don’t understand,” Mycroft squeezed his shoulder then released him, smiling sadly. “No. I don’t suppose you do.”

And then he was gone, umbrella swinging as he went. Hamish sat back, mind reeling. Just what had he gotten himself into? In the back of his mind, a countdown started. 3:00, 2:59, 2:58…

At exactly zero, the door swung open again, and Hamish silently cursed his uncle’s spot-on powers of prediction. But whoever he had been expecting, it wasn’t this woman, with her petit frame and greying hair. She sat down, flanked by two men with suits and earpieces ( _really_?), arranging a file of papers in front of her. He smirked at the image before him, this small old women and the two Men In Black (in his mind he began to refer to them a Agents J and K), but then she looked up and his smile faded. There was something in the steel of her eyes and the firm line of her mouth that reminded him somehow of John; not someone to be screwed with.

"I must say, it is a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr Holmes is it?" the woman asked.

" _Watson_ -Holmes." Hamish corrected, deciding there was no way she hadn't already known that. He had seen enough films to know she was testing him, gauging every response and word he spoke.

"My apologies," she replied coolly, making a (completely unnecessary, he was sure) note in the files in front of her. "Although I do mean it. I've wanted to have a little chat with you for quite some time. True, actually knowing who you are makes that all the easier."

"I hope I live up to your expectations," he deadpanned.

"You're not what I was expecting, I'll give you that." Her tone changed in an instant, suddenly icy and business-like. "Shall I explain your position, Mr Watson-Holmes?"

"Be my guest."

"Yesterday afternoon you illegally obtained access to the secure servers of MI6, bypassing several layers of the best security we have. You had complete access to the systems for seven minutes before you were detected, and the source of the breach traced. We are very good at this sort of thing, and have indisputable evidence to tie you to this event. Enough evidence to charge you with, well, whatever we want really, and lock you away for whatever period of time we feel like. Since this is a matter of national security you have very few options to defend yourself, and absolutely no right of public appeal. You forfeited any civil rights you think you may possess the second you attempted to enter our network. Do you follow so far?"

"Succeeded." He muttered.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"Succeeded." Hamish repeated. "I _succeeded_   in entering your network. The 'best security' you have? You were hacked in under an hour by a seventeen year old kid in pyjamas. What does that say about the state of our national defenses?"

The corner of her mouth twitched, and had it been anyone but this stern woman sitting in front of him, Hamish might have suspected it was the corner of a smile. She made another note, but no move to speak, so he continued. After the day of caffeine deprivation he had had, Hamish figured he was entitled to a bit of a rant.

"I'm guessing you'll want to ask the usual questions. _Interrogate away_. So let me save you some time. _Yes_ , I am Hamish Quinton Watson-Holmes. _No_ , I don't deny the charges against me. _No_ , I was not hired by anyone and _no_ , there is no stolen information you need to worry about tracking down. Does that about cover it?"

She pursed her lips. "Not quite. We know all that already, you see, and this isn't one of those interviews. I do have one question though. You are a smart boy, so humour me. What exactly did you think was going to happen?"

Hamish paused. Telling this woman that he had been confident no lawyer in the country could convict him wouldn't get him anywhere, nor would describing his growing boredom and apathy as he searched for something that would challenge him, that would light the same fire he had seen in his parents' eyes when they talked about The Work. All his motivations had been equally valid, but he settled on the portion of the truth that might strike a chord with her.

"MI6 is supposed to keep this country safe from all manner of external threats. How is it supposed to do that if you can't even keep your own servers secure? Ma’am, I can get into any system in the world sooner or later without anyone noticing a thing. I've already been into yours half a dozen times. To say I'm up there with the best isn't, arrogance, that's me being modest.

Of course, you already know all this. It's all there in your files exactly who I am. So live up to your name as an intelligence agency and think. Is there any reason I would be sitting here right now unless I wanted you to notice how piss-poor your security is? Consider this a formal complaint from a concerned citizen. In fact, I want to speak to your boss. MI6 needs to step up its game."

Agent J twitched behind her, and Hamish automatically registered him as the more trigger happy of the two. But the woman just regarded him evenly. "Is that so? Well, in regards to my boss, I'm afraid she is a little preoccupied with a state visit to Asia, what with being the Queen and all, so I'm afraid you're stuck with me for now. May I introduce myself? My name is 'M', and I am the head of MI6."

He opened his mouth and closed it again, for once in his life at loss for words. Hamish should have guessed that whatever this was would go all the way to the top if even Mycroft couldn't touch these people.

"So here are your three options, Mr Watson-Holmes. _One_ , you can continue to flaunt national security, and we have some lovely institutions in which to incarcerate you for a very long time. _Two_ , you can go clean, get up and walk away from this right now, and continue to live your ordinary life. Consider this chat your get out if jail free card if you like. You can go back to your family and never live up to your full potential, squander your wonderful talents and spend the next sixty years or so wondering whether or not it was worth it. Or -" her eyes flashed, "You can take this chance to make something of yourself."

"What are you offering me exactly?" he asked warily. This must be what Mycroft had warned him about.

"A job, quite simply. Utilising your talents to serve at Her Majesty's pleasure."

Well, that was the last thing he had expected. He leaned forwards. "Let me get this straight. I break about fifty laws, hack you, and now you want to hire me?"

"You're up there with the best, are you not? Prove it. Give us your best and, in time, we'll give you our trust. You'll start at the bottom of course, but, who knows how far you'll rise. Perhaps all the way, although that part is more up to you."

Hamish sat back in his chair, mind whirling. He could do it, no question. He was good enough, and this might be his chance to live up to the legacy of his parents. Sherlock, the greatest man he had ever known, and John, the best one. But working for MI6 would be taking a path entirely of his own making, a step away from the life he knew and into a world of shadows. And that was when he knew, with a sudden jolt of certainty, exactly what Mycroft had been trying to tell him.

"There's a catch, isn't there? I'm not going to get the best of both worlds here."

She smiled at him grimly. "You understand, of course. We like to say that orphans make the best recruits, but in reality every one of our agents becomes an orphan the moment they walk through our doors. You will be an asset: valuable, and therefore vulnerable. And you more than most, I am afraid."

The worst thing was, it made sense. His life was already dangerous; the day he was welcomed into Bakers Street he had become a target, because, in their line of work, his fathers seemed to make enemies by the handful. More than one had tried to use him to get to Sherlock before. And when you threw a potential career in espionage with a head full if state secrets into the mix, well, it didn't take a Holmes to work out that everyone he cared about would suddenly be twice as vulnerable. He had to choose which war he wanted to fight, and withdraw from the other altogether.

"I wouldn't be able to see my family? At all?"

"Not quite that extreme. Contact would be limited, monitored. I would advise changing your name and finding alternative accommodation for a start."

"I have a flat." Hamish mumbled, hoping he wasn't coming across as a spoilt brat. True, a seventeen year old owning his own flat on London was unusual, but at times it was necessary to get away from 221b, for the sake of his sanity if nothing more. Mycroft had been only too happy to help out, his parents to pretend they didn't know about it, and the arrangement worked perfectly. But he had never imagined it might become more than a part-time retreat.

"That will simplify matters." She pulled out a piece of paper from her file and slid it across the table. Glancing down, he couldn't miss the ornate emblem at the top of the page, nor the space for a signature at the bottom. "I will give you a moment to consider your options, Mr Watson-Holmes. Choose wisely."

And with that she was gone, taking her files and the two Men in Black with her, leaving Hamish to stare at the single form before him. Under all the legal jargon and 'official secrets act' rubbish, it was effectively a one way ticket to a whole new life. And he had no idea what to do with it. Hamish loved his family, his mad, crazy, brilliant family, and the thought of stepping out of their lives was almost enough to make him tear up the form. But still...

Maybe it was the Holmes inside him, but if there was one thing that Hamish feared above all else, it was the idea of being average, of going through life at a perfectly mundane pace without really being anything. Deep down he had always known he wasn't meant to be ordinary. Hamish wondered what his parents would do, the two great role models of his life. He thought of John, the man who had gone to war for his country, and then found a battlefield of his own when he came home. Of Sherlock, who had been willing to lose everything he loved to take down a madman whom no one else could stop. He thought of their meeting, the serendipity if two men willing to take a chance, and the way he had looked up at the stars as a boy and dreamed of more. He thought of those who would always be there to welcome him home.

And suddenly there was no question any more.

\--

Hamish was unsurprised to find the car waiting for him outside the station. It would save him having to find a cab anyway, and there was no way to avoid his uncle indefinitely. He climbed inside and the sleek black vehicle pulled away. Mycroft was sitting in the seat across from him, long fingers toying with the grip of his umbrella. He raised an eyebrow at Hamish, an unspoken question, and received a slight nod in reply.

"Ah, I see." His uncle let out a sigh and regarded the boy (still only a boy in his mind at least) for a long time. Hamish bit back a groan, choosing instead to stare out of the window at the rainy city until the deductions, or whatever passive-aggressive bollocks he was pulling were over.

Eventually, Mycroft spoke. "You will do well, I think." And Hamish supposed that was the closest to approval, or at least acceptance he was going to get.

"But Hamish, we now have a serious problem on our hands." There was a look in Mycroft's eye that only ever meant oncoming disaster, usually due to an imminent outbreak of war or terrorist attack. "What, exactly are we going to tell Sherlock and John?"

And then Hamish really did groan. The international arms dealers and rogue nations of the world would have to wait their turn - his parents were going to kill him first.


	3. First impression

“And this will be your work station. I’m sure someone will be along in a minute to instruct you.”

Hamish nodded his thanks to the suit-clad assistant who had been tasked with his brief orientation around Vauxhall Cross and watched the man walk away, fingers anxiously toying with the ID around his neck. According to the newly printed badge he was a ‘junior technician’ with the lowest level of security clearance. That was probably fair, he mused, looking around.

The desk was in the corner of the room, about as far as possible from the over-sized wall screens and well-lit front table: A not-so- subtle hierarchy system. All around Hamish, the room was filled with people working away on various projects; talking into headsets, scribbling over blueprints and tapping away at keyboards. At the front of the room, a group was clustered around one of the screens displaying a complicated-looking set of schematics. For what exactly, he couldn’t tell from this distance. Although everyone appeared to be focused on their own tasks, he wasn’t fooled. He couldn’t fail to notice the various glances and whispers being thrown his way, though whether they were because he was young, a known troublemaker, or simply new Hamish wasn’t sure. Either way, he was content to ignore them all set up his work station until someone decided to talk to, not about, him. In the end it was Q himself, a man with greying hair who took it upon himself to sort ‘the new lad’ out.

The role of the most junior ‘junior technician’ turned out to be little more than a glorified intern. Hamish filed mission reports, searched up data, and more than once had been sent to fetch coffee for his superiors. If not for his own respect of the importance of caffeine, he might have drawn the line at that one. His co-workers, while not unfriendly, were careful to maintain a certain distance from the ‘new lad’. He supposed many of them had been directly involved with fighting off his cyber-attack, which didn’t exactly give for a good first impression.

“You’ve just got to give it time, Mish.” John told him over the phone one evening. “They’ll come around eventually.”

“They all sound like idiots anyway.” Sherlock added. “Junior technician? _Please_. Give it five years and you’ll be running the branch.”

He had smiled at that. It was amazing how his parents had rallied round to support him, once they had accepted there was no way he could be stopped from taking the job. Sherlock had thrown Mycroft out of the flat when he told them, forbidden Hamish to ever leave his room, then stalked off into the night. But the next morning, there was a mug of tea sitting outside his door (with a scrabble tile H), and a post-it not stuck on, covered in a familiar scrawl: _Good luck_.

While he had once enjoyed the quiet of his flat, now Hamish’s evenings felt empty without the mad comings and goings of his parents. He would even welcome finding a head in the fridge, or one of his jumpers hanging from the TV aerial at this point. Hamish had always been perfectly happy with his own company, but the thought of coming home to an empty flat drove him to stay later and later in Q-branch, finishing work ahead of time and familiarising himself with all the projects he had clearance for. Besides, he wanted to be fully prepared if he was ever called in to work on one of them. Not that that seemed likely.

It was on one of these occasions, when all but the skeleton night shift had gone home, that Hamish sat at his desk reading the specs for a compact tracking beacon. He had found he liked this time of day; it was easier to think without the usual bustle. Of course, even now, the branch wasn’t quiet. Across the room someone was murmuring into a headset – guiding an agent through a mission no doubt – and the ever present humming of machines filled the air, but Hamish found the sounds oddly soothing. The plans in front of him were brilliant, and times like this, he minded his job a whole lot less. He was jerked out of his thoughts by the man across the room (Cooper, Hamish remembered), yawning loudly as he stretched.

“What time is it?”

Hamish paused for a moment, before looking around the empty branch and realising he must be talking to him. “About eleven thirty.” He really needed to start getting home earlier.

“Christ, it’s going to be a long night. I need coffee. Hey, um, Holmes is it? Can you do me favour?”

“ _Watson_ -Holmes,” Hamish corrected, sighing inwardly at the thought of being sent up three flights of stairs to the cafeteria.

“Oh right. Do you mind watching 004 for a second while I run upstairs?”

“But I – I don’t have that kind of clearance,” he stuttered, taken aback.

“You don’t need it; he’s just on a stake out. Nothing’s going to happen for hours, and I really need to stretch my legs. Think of it as babysitting.”

“If you’re sure.” Hamish really didn’t want to get kicked out over a breach of protocol in his first month on the job.

“You’ll do fine, I’m only stepping out for five.” And with an encouraging nod, he was out the door.

“Babysitting. I can do that.” Hamish told himself, crossing the room to Cooper’s station, and carefully arranging a set of headphones over his messy curls. He swallowed nervously, trying to get some context from the information in front of him.

As far as he could tell, 004 was watching a medical research lab outside Cairo. The building’s security systems seemed to be displayed in blue, and that yellow dot must be the agent himself. He paused and frowned at the screen as a new signal appeared. What were those red blips moving towards him? They looked almost like… He swore loudly, the curse echoing around the empty room, and flicked on his comm.

“004, be advised, you have hostiles coming straight for you. Armed patrol, 200 meters to your right and closing in fast.”

“Bugger, they must have thermal imaging,” came a gruff voice down the line. “Wait, who the hell are you? Where’s Cooper?”

“Temporarily unavailable,” Hamish replied, furiously typing on one of the laptops.

“Why, is the building on fire? Get him on the line, now.”

“Not possible right now. I need you to listen to me. Do not engage. I can’t see any thermal cameras on their systems, so there’s a chance they don’t know you’re there yet and this is just a random patrol. Don’t give away your position.”

“Options, then?”

Hamish scanned the screens. “Do you see a door to your right?”

“Don't bother trying. They’ve all got electromagnetic locks.”

“I’m on that right now. Get yourself through it.”

“You’d better be.”

Hamish watched the yellow dot moved across the screen as his fingers flew over the keys, hyper aware of the patrol moving closer to 004’s position.

“I told you it was locked,” came the snarl down the line.

“I nearly have it,”

“Any time now would be great…”

“There!” His screen lit up green, and he heard the agent sigh in relief as he moved inside. “Ok, I’m locking that behind you. You should be inside a storage room. I want you to take the north-west corridor, the one straight in front of you, and go to the stairwell at the end. There’s an emergency exit two floors up that should get you out the compound.”

“Whatever you say, kid.” The dot started moving once more. “Won’t the door set of an alarm?”

“Leave that to me. Just get up there, and for God’s sake watch out for-" he was cut off as the screen suddenly flashed red and alarms blared down the comms, accompanied by a muffled curse. “- electronic tripwires.” Hamish finished in despair. _Shit_. “Ok, _now_ they know you’re here. And their systems are going into shutdown.”

“Brilliant. Can you still open the doors?”

“I might be able to give you a window. Keep moving, and watch your six.”

Rows of computer code danced before his eyes as Hamish tried to fight his way back into the warehouse’s security systems. The fact they knew he was there made the job about a hundred times harder.

“Your six!” He warned the agent, as the sound of gunshots echoed in his ears. “004, you still there?”

Silence. Just the crackle of static down the line.

“004? Report! What is your status?” He was definitely getting kicked out in his first month at this rate.

“I’m here. God those guys are annoying. Am I good to go yet?”

“I should be able to give you about twenty seconds cover on your word. And answer me when I talk goddamit, I _really_ don’t want to have to report an AKIA on my watch. I’m trying to save your arse here so work with me!” And of course, during his brief adrenaline-fueled moment of insubordination, Cooper decided to walk back in through the door, coffee in hand. His mouth fell open.

“Holmes, what the hell are you doing?”

Hamish moved neither his eyes from the screen nor his fingers from the keys, although he did take the time to correct the man. “ _Watson_ -Holmes, Cooper. And I’m trying to get your agent out of here alive.” Seriously, what was so hard about the Watson part to remember?

“Going to need that cover,” 004 warned in his ear.

Hamish clicked his fingers and shot Cooper a meaningful glance. “Ok, in three, two, one, “- he hit the enter key–“ _now_!” And somewhere outside Cairo, a medical research lab lost all power and plunged into darkness.

“What was that?” Cooper gaped over his shoulder. “How did you do that?”

“Let’s just say I’m very good.” And if Hamish was enjoying this minor catastrophe a bit too much, it was just the adrenaline talking, really. Nothing at all to be with being truly in his element for the first time in weeks, nor the gobsmacked expression on his colleague's face.

After twenty four seconds (the Egyptians were getting slow, it seemed) a backup kicked in and the facility lit up again, spotlights turned up to full power and alarms blaring.

“004, are you clear?”

“Clear and away. It seems someone left a perfectly good motorcycle lying around.”

Hamish allowed himself to smile. “Good work agent. I’m going to hand you back to your handler now. Safe travels.”

He stood up and stretched. “Right, think I’m going to go home now,” he told Cooper. "Good luck with the rest of the _babysitting_.”

\--

And the next morning, the whispers and stares were of an entirely different nature. He caught a sort of grudging respect in the glances shot across the room at him, and the next thing to be dropped on his desk wasn’t a memo to deliver. It wasn’t a report to file or even a coffee order. It was the blueprints for the tracking beacon he had been reading last night, a single word scribbled on a post-it-note stuck to the front.

_‘Thoughts?’_

Hamish grinned. _Five years Dad? Give me four._


	4. A tin of Earl Grey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wasn't going to post this until Monday, but it's a little present to myself after getting exam results. Not super happy with the chapter, but it means we can get the plot really started next week.   
> Enjoy! x

Hamish fiddled with his tie resignedly, cursing yet again the invention of formal wear. Why Sherlock chose to wear suits every day he would never know; his own personal preference was comfort, especially in the form of a casual jumper. But some days, when a meeting with senior staff of MI6 were necessary, Hamish was forced to don a suit and tie. Days such as today, unfortunately.  
                At least it wasn’t the whole of the senior staff. Hamish had been forced to sit through one of those meetings before, when R had been ill and no-one else in the branch had understood the schematics that Q was presenting well enough to assist him. That had been an experience not to repeat; it had been oppressively formal, dull beyond belief, and Hamish had never felt more like he didn’t belong somewhere. Those people were the country’s elite, having risen from academies and institutions through the ranks, and he was a common (ex-)criminal, who just happened to have some technical skills. He had sat through the whole meeting expecting to be thrown out at any second.  
                No, this time it was only M, although she could be as intimidating as the rest put together when she wanted to be, and twice as dangerous. At least if her expression today, glowering at him from across the desk was anything to go by. She had been his boss for close to five years, and Hamish was no less wary of that scowl since the day he had met her.  
“Did you really have to blow up the whole compound, Mr Watson-Holmes?” she asked with a sigh.  
“You know, I was a little time-pushed to brainstorm other options. Another minute and they would have launched that missile.”  
“I am aware of that, but Agent Blake assures me-“  
“Agent Blake was in over his head and you know it! What was he even doing in Greece?”  
Hamish hadn’t meant to shout, but he had been seething over his latest mission for days. The young field agent hadn’t been ready, and had almost gotten himself killed in the process. It wasn’t that Hamish didn’t understand the risks of the field, nor would it have been the first time he had lost a man, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. The management knew how dangerous the mission was, and should have sent in someone more experienced. Maybe then they wouldn’t have come as close to having to make the dreaded phone-call home, or have a disgruntled communications supervisor on their hands.  
“That is not your call to make.” She shot him another withering glare. “And it seems we don’t need competent field agents if we can cause mass destruction from our own Headquarters. Tell me, were you ever taught the meaning of the word overkill?”  
He simply shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”  
M glared at him for a second longer then shook her head. “Honestly, you’re worse than the double-0s.”  
Hamish opened his mouth, and then closed it again. That was hardly fair. He had nothing on the carnage the 00s wreaked around the world. Those agents were the best of the best, highly trained in causing every manor of chaos, and had a reputation for maximum destruction. And that was just their own equipment. Q could often be heard complaining loudly about the lack of care they showed for his creations, and very rarely was equipment returned in fewer than three parts, if at all. 006 and 007 were supposedly the worst offenders, although he had never dealt with them personally. He had only come into contact with (the possibly psychopathic) 009 and 004 (who requested to work with Hamish regularly after their first meeting), and they behaved like perfect angles in comparison. If the stories were to be believed, that was.  
“I’m insulted,” he told her, really trying not to focus on the fact he felt he had just been complimented. (Damn his parents, really).  
“And I really couldn’t care less. In any case, I dint call you up here to discuss the mission in Greece.”  
“No?” Hamish asked lightly, trying not to let the curiosity in his voice show.  
“No. You were present last Thursday, for the incident during weapons testing, I believe?”  
“That was no-one’s fault.” He responded quickly.  
“You are aware of what happened, are you not?”  
“Yes, and it really wasn’t that big of a deal!”  
“No?” M asked, raising an eyebrow.  
“No. It was just a minor miscalculation with some compounds. The fire was put out quickly, no one hurt, nothing damaged, catastrophe avoided. Just another day in Q-branch.”  
She regarded him sternly across the desk, as Hamish silently begged her to drop the issue. Q was the best boss he could imagine, and really didn't deserve to get chewed out by the management over something so trivial. Of course, things didn’t quite work like that.  
“I must say, your loyalty is commendable, Watson-Holmes, but you needn’t worry about it. It was Q himself who raised the issue with me. He’s been considering stepping down for some time, and last week’s incident served as a reminder that he is not as young as he once was.”  
“But it was only a little fire,”  
“This time, yes. And next time it will be a malfunctioning weapon sent into the field, or a mistake when transferring defence codes, or perhaps a slip of the fingers when mixing volatile chemicals. These are his words, not mine.” She added, holding up a hand to Hamish’s protests. “And, regrettably, our much distinguished Quartermaster has decided to retire.”  
Hamish sat back in his seat, stunned. It was impossible to imagine Q-branch without Q. The man may potter around and look about as threatening as someone’s doting grandfather, but his wits remained razor-sharp, with a tongue to match. There wasn’t a single person working under the Quartermaster who didn’t respect and care for him in equal measure, and Hamish was no exception.  
“Why are you telling me this?” he asked M, suddenly suspicious. She had a reputation for running MI6 on a strictly need-to-know basis, and discussing a private conversation between two senior members of the organisation seemed uncharacteristically lax.  
She smiled thinly. “Watson-Holmes, the day I met you I took a gamble. Don’t ask me why. There are times I struggle to remember myself.” She gestured at the file for the Greek mission on her desk, and he grimaced. “But it seems I was not mistaken. MI6 is tired, old fashioned, and fast becoming redundant. We could do with more gambles. And our Quartermaster speaks very highly of you, and he seems to think that you have something more you can give to your branch. Clean out your desk, Supervisor. It would seem you have been promoted, effective Monday.”  
Hamish blinked. Eventually his lips managed to form coherent words. “But I’m far from the most experienced member of the branch-“  
“And yet you outrank almost all of them. So what does that tell you?”  
“R-“he began again.  
“Agent R has expressed no wish to rise higher in this organisation. On the contrary, I believe exact words to Q were “I’d make a God awful Q and we both know it.”  
Hamish had run out of both arguments, and the will to make them. As if on autopilot, he nodded. M stood abruptly and, not knowing what else to do, he copied.  
“Shake my hand,” she instructed, and he did so, rather formally. “There.” She told him. “We just made the first step in redefining MI6. Don’t mess up.”  
An agent was sitting in the waiting room outside M’s office, poring over a file marked Budapest. Hamish recognised the brown hair, and smiled as she looked up. She had been the first person he really considered a friend here, the only one not to treat him like a criminal in those first painful weeks when he found his feet, and still the one he would trust above all others in this damn organisation.  
“Hey Eve,”  
She grinned. “Congratulations, I suppose.”  
“How…?” He reconsidered. “You know what, never mind, you always know.”  
“I’m a spy, idiot, it’s what I do. And when I get back, we’re going for drinks. Properly this time, no passing out on me again.” She turned on her heel, and Hamish watched her go fondly. At least he would have one ally when he took over the branch on Monday. The whole branch. He was still processing that part.  
   
When Monday came, Hamish was surprised to find more than one ally keen to congratulate him and help the transition to his new role. As it turned out, the old Quartermaster hadn’t been the only one that Q-branch respected and cared for in equal measure. But what really made him smile was the mug sitting on his new desk, next to a fresh tin of Earl Grey tea, with a ‘Q’ printed on the side. No doubt about where that came from. tea was a vital necessity to some people, after all. However, he did later advise M to sweep her office for any of Mycroft’s bugs. Not that he didn’t appreciate the support from his family, but their omniscience should have its limits somewhere.  
   
   
 


	5. Planning murder in public

"Are you out of your mind, Eve? You can't be serious about this transfer."

"I think you'll find I am. Serious about it I mean, not out of my mind. Although the jury's still out on that one."

They were sitting in a dingy bar on Lambeth High street, in their usual booth in the corner. It had become a favourite spot of theirs; cheep, nothing fancy but with a lively buzz; far enough from work that they wouldn't run into half the British intelligence community (no one wants to deal with co-workers after hours) but within walking distance of the office at whatever insane time they managed to clock off work. Of course, it was a lot further away from their new place of work; Churchill's war rooms were on the other side of London. But this was the first time they had been able to get out for a drink since relocating the entirety of MI6 underground, and the two had met here by unspoken agreement. If tonight was going to be an escape from the chaos of the new HQ, they were going to do it right. But Hamish hadn't been expecting Eve to tell him she was transferring branches.

"But you're a brilliant operative!" he protested. 

"Marksmanship scores and anti-interrogation training are one thing. I don't think I'm really meant for the field." She gave him a tight smile that didn't quite reach her eyes and took a long drink. Hamish felt his heart twist painfully for her.

"Eve... You know it wasn't your fault right? Istanbul? The mission was out of your control."

Even the facade-smile dropped from her lips, and Hamish silently cursed himself for his lack of tact. At least he knew which father to blame for that one. She was still shaken by her last mission weeks on; in truth the whole of MI6 was. Even Q-branch, who had little contact with Bond (and even that was usually at the end of an earpiece) had been in a state of shock. He had been such a successful agent, a sort of living legend walking their halls and it was odd to think they would never hear another overly-exaggerated tale of his exploits. Hamish had never even met him officially as 'Q', having barely started when the news came in 

Eve blamed herself, he knew. She never said, but it was clear to see in her eyes. It had been her first time paired with a 00, and he could only imagine how it felt to watch your partner fall into the water below, dead by your hand. As much as he tried to tell her it wasn't her fault, that image wouldn't go away any time soon. It was all he could do to take her mind off it whenever he could.

M never spoke about it either, but Hamish could see she carried her share of guilt. They had always been close, 007 and her, and she had been the one to give the order. Somehow those fateful words ' _take the bloody shot_ ' had become common knowledge around Vauxhall Cross, and the whispers stalked her through the corridors like ghosts, always accusing. Despite this, Hamish found it hard to blame her. This was the game they were in, the shadowy world that each one of them had chosen to enter. Sometimes gambles don't pay off; someone has to step up to make the hard call and things can go south in the blink of an eye. It was her job to send agents out into peril, after all, and this was hardly the first man she had lost.

If anyone, he blamed himself. M should _never_ have been on the comms for that mission, not with all the extra pressure she was facing with the upcoming hearing and that bastard Mallory making life difficult. Originally, some Q-branch junior was guiding the mission, but once the situation escalated and 007 was brought in, protocol dictates it should have been handed up the chain of command. To him. But Hamish had only been two weeks into his new role of Q, constantly drowning in backlogs of work now he had a whole branch to pull under his control. He had passed over the responsibility, never dreaming the situation could go so badly wrong. He knew if he had been in their ears he could have found another solution, rather than the overburdened M who was less used to guiding these operations. If he had been on the mission, perhaps Bond and Ronson would still be alive , and Eve wouldn't be planning to transfer from the position of field agent she had so worked to hard to gain to some desk-bound administrative role.

He squeezed her hand. "I mean it. Don't let this get the better of you."

"It's not that. I'll finish what I started with this mission but after... " She shivered, despite the warmth of the room. "Out in the field, it's not like here. There's so many things you have to leave to chance, so much that can change in the blink of an eye. Q, I can't live like that. From now on, I want to save the world from somewhere I can control everything that happens."

"So it's just your inner control-freak talking then?" he teased, and was rewarded by the first genuine smile he has seen in a while.

"Watch it, Sparky. I've got a licence to kill, you know."

"Sparky?" Hamish spluttered in outrage.

"Would you prefer gadget-man? Techie? IT-support? I'm not going to spend my life calling you a code letter, and as you refuse to tell me your first name..."

Hamish rolled his eyes, before allowing her to drag him back into the familiar argument. It was at times like this - beer in hand, trading insults and jokes with a friend, that Hamish could almost imagine he was someone else. Not a genius with one of the highest security clearances in the country, who had been raised in the most unconventional household known to man and had spent the morning warding Britian's cyber network against future North Korean assaults. No, they were just two normal friends hanging out after work. Despite Hamish's deep rooted fear of being unremarkable, it felt oddly liberating, and honest-to-God good. So, of course, it didn't last.

He was about to get up in search of another round when both of their phones went off at the same time, an identical alert noise which could only mean one thing; a briefing from HQ. "And I was having such a good time as well," Eve complained.

"I'll see what it is," Hamish offered, fishing into his pocket for his mobile. (Not his only mobile, obviously. He always kept a spare concealed somewhere about his person for emergencies. He'd never had a genuine emergency in which to use it, and was odly disappointed.) He picked up his drink to drain it as he scrolled to find the message, but the glass never made it to his mouth. His arm froze half way up, along with the rest of him as the read the information. Then read it again.

"Q?" Eve asked anxiously, suddenly an agent again. "What's happened? Is it another attack?"

"He's alive."

" _What_?"

Wordlessly, he handed the phone over and watched as Eve read the message, mouth falling open in shock. "The bastard. I'm going to shoot him again when I see him."

Hamish had to agree with the sentiment. Family experience had taught him that faking your death was definitely in the region of not good, especially when the whole world seemed to be falling to shit around them. 007 had some serious explaining to do. But despite himself, Hamish couldn't ignore the relief settling in his stomach; not just for Eve's sake, not England's, but he was honestly glad that Bond was back. "Now now, Moneypenny, no concocting treasonous murder plans in public."

"Shove off." She read the message another time. "A 0700 briefing tomorrow morning? Christ, we should get home. I can't kick James Bond's face in without my beauty sleep."

They parted ways outside, Eve heading in the direction of the tube while Hamish went in search of a taxi. He had never quite developed Sherlock's knack for conjuring them out of thin air. "Get some sleep, Eve." he told her.

"See you tomorrow, Sparky." She flashed a grin at him over her shoulder, and then she was gone into the night. Hamish chuckled to himself as he walked away, heart considerably lighter than it had been earlier. London was on critical terror alert, there was some unknown maniac targeting MI6, and it looked like he was going to have to defend England on about four hours sleep, but it was the happiest Hamish had been since his promotion.  Now all he had to do was prevent a brutal homicide first thing tomorrow morning. Or maybe he'd just bring along popcorn and watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to make it clear, I personally LOVE Mallory, but Hamish can't stand the man. Not yet anyway...
> 
> And next chapter will finally have some Bond!


	6. Dangerous people

Field agents were dangerous people. Hamish knew that. When he had first joined MI6, all this years ago, it had been the one piece of advice that John had given him. After all his parents’ protests and fussing, the soldier had taken his son aside.

“Look Mish, I know we’re not going to be able to stop you. But be careful, yeah? There are going to be people you meet, people who have spent years training to be the most ruthless and efficient weapons on the planet. They would pull any trigger or burn any city to the ground because a voice in their ear told them to, and never feel the slightest regret over it. And these are the good guys. You can handle yourself,I know, just don't let them get too close.’

It had been good advice, from a man who knew what he was talking about. But Hamish had never been very good at taking advice. And despite himself, despite all the destruction and devastation he saw on his screens, he found it impossible not to look for the human side in every agent that walked through his doors. And more often than not, he found it. True, this made it so much harder every time they lost a man, but seeing the good in his colleges was one of the little ways Hamish managed to keep himself sane. During the sleepless nights when doubts came creeping in he would think of Eve’s mischievous smile, or Agent Grant’s passion for football, or the day he had taken time off to go to Simon’s wedding, and he could reassure himself he wasn't working for the bad guys.

Even the 00s were no exception. (well, maybe 009, she was a borderline psychopath.) Ever since the first time Hamish had stepped into 004’s mission, the agent regularly requested him down the comms. Even if his exact words tended to be “Where the hell is that bloody kid? Yeah the mouthy one, put him one”, he found it oddly flattering. By the time he became Quartermaster, Hamish had gotten to know all the 00s to greater or lesser extent, and while he would never consider one a friend, there was a sort of mutual respect between the walking weapons and their handler that he had come to rely on. All, the agents that was, except one.

Due to blind chance, hectic jobs and Bond’s habit of long holidays while he played dead, Hamish found himself walking into the gallery having never met the agent he was about to brief. he had heard the stories of course; the man was a walking legend in Vauxhall Cross, held in equal parts reverence, respect and fear by the staff. But Hamish had long ago learnt not to stake much support in rumours, and hold judgement until he had made his own immersions of a man. It was one of the many lessons taught during his unorthodox childhood, somewhere between memorising the streets of London and treating a wound. He preferred to trust his own instincts, do his own editing as it were, so it was with a little curiosity as he took a seat in front of _The Fighting Termeraire_.

007 was… difficult to figure out. From the outside he was cool and composed, making scathing comments about Hamish’s complexion and moving with smooth confidence. But Hamish knew that kind of confidence, the over abundance of self-control. It was the way John might be the morning after a particularly bad nightmare, putting extra effort into appearing unshaken and unaffected, taking special care to maintain a facade starting to crack under the pressure of keeping going. There was something under Bond’s surface, something dark and beginning to break. There were glimpses of it behind the agent’s eyes, even as he talked about the “Bloody great boat”. This was the sort of man his father had been talking about, no question. The man had an aura of danger about him, and Hamish knew he could as easily shoot him as blink, and not loose a minute of sleep. He was sure he wasn't supposed to like the man. But when Bond said ‘Q’, in a tone that indicated grudging trust, he couldn't help but smile and mentally tick off another agent under the list of those he could count on.

And it worked, Q and 007, right up until the moment everything went so horribly wrong. The success of the mission in Macau, the relief of having Silva contained… Hamish got cocky. For one vital moment he was just another rookie with an inflated ego, and he screwed up right when it mattered. Years of being the smartest person in the room had left Hamish thinking MI6 was untouchable, and in turn he had held the door wide open for Silva. The realisation came crashing down as he watched Bond sprint away from him to try and contain the damage they had caused, and Hamish briefly wondered if this was how it had felt in Q-branch when he had hacked the servers years before. if so, no wonder they had mistrusted him; a strike to the heart of the organisation that protected you was terrifying.

But he had no time to wallow in fear or anger, directing 007 through the underground after Silva. Bond’s sarcastic running commentary helped ease the panic, but his blood ran cold when the agent announced “He’s going after M.” That, Hamish couldn't allow. M, who had seen something in him he hadn't known existed. M, who had put her trust in him when he had done nothing to deserve it, who had taken a chance on misguided kid and helped him t grow. Hamish gritted his teeth as he typed an alert to Tanner. Silva would not get his hands on M if he had anything to do with it.

Those few minutes, when everything went to hell and Silva burst in to the tribunal, they among the longest of Hamish’s life. There had been nothing he could do but listen, useless and helpless at HQ, while gunfire blasted down the comms. They had been so stupid, he realised, and now they were all easy targets. M, Bond, Tanner, even Mallory, anything could happen to them and there was nothing Hamish could do to stop it. He thought back to what Eve had said about field work, how events could spiral beyond your control and there was nothing you could do to stop it. That had happened today.

As it turned out, the only person in MI6 more determined to protect M than Hamish was Bond. When the agent called him, describing how they were going to bring down Silva, Hamish didn't know if he wanted to kill 007 or kiss him more in that moment. The man had gone completely off the grid, bypassing all protocol or sane course of action, and no man in his right mind would have gone along with it. Lucky he was a Watson-Holmes then.

This is what we do, Hamish though as he began to lay down the breadcrumbs across Britain. This is how we fight for the people we care about. This is how far we are willing to go. In that at least, the eccentric Quartermaster and the cold-blooded agent were the same. Because Bond wasn't cold blooded at all, Hamish realised. He put up a very good act, so refined over the years it was near impossible to get to the truth, and he had learnt to distance himself from his work. Because that was what he simply had to do to get through it, in the same way Hamish forced himself to see the humanity in killers.. But for those who mattered, the people who meant something, he would move mountains.

But sometimes, even mountain moving isn't enough.

In the end it was Eve who brought the news. He and Tanner had been waiting anxiously in Q-branch and when the glass doors slid open, Hamish had only needed to take one look at her face to know. Something had gone terribly wrong. A stunned silence had followed her announcement, Tanner sliding softly into a nearby chair. Hamish’s brain was buffering, stuck in a loop of shock and denial. M couldn't be gone. Not the ever invincible, ever present M to whom he owed so much and had failed so utterly. Except apparently she could, and somehow the world, and the cogs of MI6, were supposed to go on turning.

The three of them remained that way, neither moving nor speaking in the darkening branch for a long time, the humming of machinery the only sound. It was only when Tanner finally stood, announcing that he should assist with the fallout and Eve left with him that Hamish realised there had been no word about Bond.

—

Say what you wanted about MI6, but damn if it wasn't resilient. It wasn't as if they had a choice, after all, but to keep on going after the worst had happened, and continue to do the jobs that none else could do. Because God forbid England could actually be safe for once, that would make Hamish’s job far too easy.

It was a job he didn't think he was going to keep, at one point. Everyone knew it had been M who elevated an under-experienced, known security risk of a kid up through MI6, and Hamish had often wondered if it was just her influence that kept him there. And then there were all his mistakes; allowing Silva to hack their network, playing an (assuredly illegal) part in the plan that got M killed. Mallory had every right to dismiss him, and that had been Hamish’s expectation upon being called up to M’s office, which he now occupied. But the man, arm still in a sling, had looked him up and down, thanked him for his service in a time of crisis, and offered his assistance in assuring the MI6 servers would be secure once more. Maybe it was time for Hamish to rethink his opinion of ' _that bastard'._

This went on for a week, a week of back-to-back shifts and damage control during which there was no word from the still absent Bond. Eve thought he might have gone AWOL, but Hamish wasn't so sure. A man like that, a man who walked a razor blade between burning glory and absolute ruin would need time to fix his fraying edges, if only enough so that no one would see him beginning to come apart at the seams. And then, then he would need a purpose, something to fight for with all the strength he had in him. Because men like Bond didn't do things by halves. It simply wasn't in their nature.

So Hamish simply waited, most definitely not watching the hands on the clock slip past with every day that went by. Until the morning Hamish checked the security cameras to see a certain agent standing on the roof, looking out over the city he served. And smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess this is the obligatory 'basically-re-write-Skyfall-from-Q's-point-of-view' chapter, sorry about lack of original plot here, but its necessary for the overall story.  
> Oh, and all random agents mentioned are completely made up


	7. Home invasion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the continued support on this fic. Just a heads up, I'm back to school on Saturday, so posting may be a little more infrequent from now on. So as a sorry in advance, I'll try to post two chapters this week. x

_Holidays_ , Hamish thought bitterly. _I really bloody miss holidays. And weekends. And sleep…_

He shook his head sharply to clear it, and refocused on the task at hand, namely accessing accounts for a warehouse in Scandinavia suspected of containing chemical weaponry. It wasn't that he disliked his job: quite the opposite actually, but as Q, any real time off was a fond memory. Who knew when the next maniac would try to blow up Hong Kong, or overthrow the Brazilian government, after all. There really did seem to be a disproportionate number of maniacs these days.

“What have you got for me Q?”

 _Talk of the devil…_ Hamish readjusted his earpiece in an attempt to improve the sound quality. “Nothing yet Bond, but give me time. The firewalls they have in place really are something, you know. Whoever designed these systems-“

“Oh God, I think Q’s in love,” he drawled. “Should we expect your defection any time soon? I’d hate to have to hunt you down.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Hamish smirked.

“Oh, I’d manage.”

Hamish was so very glad he was the only one in Q-branch right now, because he was almost certain he could feel a blush creeping its way up his cheeks. Which was entirely nonsensical. It must be the lack of sleep. He opened his mouth, but was saved having to reply by an alarm starting to flash on his screen.

“Ok, I’m in.” Scanning down the page of numbers, names and dates, Hamish felt his mouth fall open at the scale of the operation they were dealing with. “Christ, we’re going to nail these bastards.”

“Music to my ears, Q. Where do we start?”

In the end, the mission entailed complete radio silence, which always grated Hamish’s nerves. He liked having his agents where he could keep an eye on them, and step in at a moments notice if necessary. That went for all his agents, he reminded himself forcefully, determined to ignore the fluttering nerves in his stomach as Bond signed off with a cheery “See you on the other side,”.

 

But Hamish didn’t, and two days passed without ant trace of the agent. He tried not to think about it; this was standard procedure when cut off from HQ, and knowing 007, he was making the most of some extra time off, probably relaxing somewhere disgustingly exotic while everyone else worked their backsides off at home. That seemed to be how these things went for Hamish. He looked up from his screens as a voice cut through the quiet hum of computers.

“Christ Q, do you ever leave the branch?” Eve had one hand on her hip, a disapproving frown plastered across her face, and was doing a pretty good job of making six-inch stilettos look like lethal weapons.

“Not half as much as I’d like to. What can I do for you?”

“You busy?”

“Eternally,” he muttered under his breath. And then, louder, added “I’m going through the accounts from the chemical warehouse. Something about these numbers doesn't add up. There’s no way they should have access to half of these assets. We’ve got another player here, I’m sure of it.”

“I’m sure you’ll work it out, that big brain of yours,” Eve said waving her hand dismissively. “Or Bond will find something. Any word from him yet?”

“You know 007, the first we’ll here from him is that he’s already back, no doubt sporting a fresh tan or something.”

Eve arched one eyebrow, studying him curiously, and not for the first time Hamish decided she was far too clever for her own good. Or for his, anyway. “I suppose thats true,” she said finally. “I only dropped in to remind you we’re still on for tonight."

Hamish checked the date on his screen, and repressed a groan. It was the first Friday of the month; _catch-up night_ as Eve called it, _category-five-hangover-in-the-making night,_ as Hamish privately referred to it. Not that he didn't enjoy one of the few social events he still had, but he really couldn't face the thought of attending work tomorrow with a raging headache and a still-absent 00.

“Fantastic,” he muttered, being sure to inject all sarcasm humanly possible into the three syllables.

Eve grinned and winked mischievously, and Hamish silently apologised to his liver in advance. Nothing good ever came from that look, he knew. “See you at seven then,” she turned and sauntered away, but paused at a nearby desk covered in blueprints. She pulled one of the plans close for inspection.

“Q..”

“Hm?”

“Is this an exploding pen?”

“Of course not…”

\--

It was probably against some sort of security protocol, Hamish mused, for the Quartermaster of MI6 to be wondering the streets of London as drunk as he was. But honestly, he couldn't bring himself to care right now. He had needed tonight, a few hours to forget all the responsibility and regulations (not to mention a certain MIA agent). The highlight had undoubtedly been a red-faced Tanner planting a kiss squarely on Eves lips, and the look of absolute horror on her face for the full two seconds it took for her brain to reboot, and the unfortunate agent to find himself doubled over in pain, recoiling from a blow God-knows-where. But after, Hamish had found himself alone in a booth with Eve, who was in surprisingly good form considering the amount she had drunk, and on the receiving end of one of her latest delusional lectures.

“He’s interested, I’m telling you. Its obvious when you two are in the same room. I bet you’re just his type.”

"He’s _James fucking Bond_ , you know what he’s like. Willing and with a pulse is his type, and I’m not sure either of those are compulsory. But anyway, I couldn’t care less.” Hamish had been abundantly clear on that last point. At least, he thought he had been. The pleasant haze of alcohol made it difficult to recall just what exactly he’d said.

In the small pocket of his mind that was still functioning logically, Hamish supposed he should be impressed he had managed to reach his flat safely, without ending up under a bus or kidnapped by terrorists, given the state he was in. He lingered a minute at the door, fumbling with a key that really should be easier to fit into the lock, and when it finally swung open, he had every intention of collapsing straight into bed. Instead, the moment he entered the silent flat, the hairs on the back of his neck pricked up. Hamish may be significantly hammered, but he had been an operative long enough to know when something wasn't right. He couldn't quite put his finger on it: perhaps there was a sound he had not yet registered, or an object out of place, or maybe something even more subtle, but it was enough to set alarm bells ringing.

Sobering rapidly, he retrieved his less-than-legal pistol from the small of his back (some very bad habits could be inherited, it seemed) and moved slowly forward, gun raised. If he had been any younger or more naive, he might have called out _hello?_ , or _who’s there?_ or something equally stupid. But no, that sort of behaviour, Hamish had decided, should be reserved for cheesy horror films, or people who fancied having their brains blown out. Instead, he moved slowly, quietly, ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation. As it turned out, he needn't have worried about being subtle.

“For God’s sake, put the gun down Q. You look ridiculous.” A light switched on and Hamish whirled at the voice, brain not processing he recognised it until he saw who was sitting in the corner, glass of scotch in hand, and his brain put two and two together.

“Bond. You’re in my flat.”

“With brains like that, no wonder you’re the Quartermaster,” 007 drawled.

Hamish just blinked. “Can I ask why?”

Bond shrugged. “Don’t feel like sitting through a debrief until the morning, and M’s got people watching my house. It was convenient.”

“Right. Convenient.”

Hamish must have looked pretty out of it, because the agent frowned in concern. “You ok, Q?” And then he took a whiff. “God, you’re stewed right now aren't you?”

“Yes. No. Maybe. You’re the one drinking my scotch!”

This seemed a perfectly reasonable objection to raise, but Bond just smirked. “Oh this is _golden_. Maybe I should be filming this.”

Hamish glared. “What you should be doing is getting the fuck out of my flat.”

“Why, am I making you uncomfortable?” 007 inquired innocently. _(Yes)._ “Relax, Q. Just go to bed, and I’ll be gone by morning.”

Hamish bit his lip. Oh, there were _several_ things he wanted to do right now. He wanted to throw the agent out of his door by the scruff of his neck. He wanted to slap him for not even bothering to let them know he was alive. He wanted to push him up against the wall, run his hands through the closely cropped hair kiss that insufferable smirk of his lips and…

On second thoughts, perhaps it would be safest to just go to bed and forget this home invasion ever happened. He was drunk enough to entertain some pretty bad ideas right now, but not so drunk as he couldn't tell how stupid it would be to follow them through. The state he was in, James bond was nothing but a dangerous temptation that could only lead to mistakes.

“The sofa’s all yours.” He said finally, before turning to stalk away (that was his intention, although it probably came off as more of a stagger than anything else.) He didn't make it half way across the room though, before a hand grabbed his wrist. He turned to find the ice-blue eyes, the stark cheekbones, the stubbled jawline, just inches away from his own.

“Goodnight, Q,” Bond said softly, more so than Hamish would have imagined the man was capable of. He swallowed a dry lump in his throat.

“Goodnight Bond,” he managed, trying not to feel too sorry when the grip on his arm was released, and he was free to make his was to his (decidedly empty) bed.

\--

Once again, _Category-five-hangover-in-the-making night_ had successfully lived up to it’s name. Hamish wasn't the only one looking worse for wear in Q-branch the next morning, though the observation did very little to console him as he watched an aspirin dissolve into a cup of water. God damn Eve for all eternity, this was her fault. And of course, she had been bright and breezy as always when she stopped by to drop of some files earlier, much to Hamish’s disgust.

He had spent most of the morning plotting various ways he could get his revenge on her. It was infinitely preferable than focusing on the other problem he had woken up to this morning, namely the memory of a certain agent sitting in his flat. _His bloody flat_ , of all the places in London. What was wrong with a hotel?

There had been no sign of Bond when he got up, not even a hint that he’d been there, and Hamish had been half way to believing it had all been some drunken hallucination. Until he had got into work to find a bottle of scotch sitting on his desk with one of those cheep bows stuck to it. He had hidden it before any of his colleges had noticed as if evidence of a guilty conscience, even though he was comprehensively sure he had done nothing to feel guilty about. He would have remembered _that_ for sure.

Which of course brought him to the second part of the problem: Hamish, despite himself, was harbouring decidedly unprofessional thoughts about the man he had repeatedly denied having any interest in, and who also happened to be the most dangerous individual he knew. _Brilliant_. Perhaps this issue went a little deeper than a runaway drunken imagination after all, but Hamish had a solid plan in place to deal with it: firmly deny and ignore all such feelings until they went away of their own accord.

And it was a good thing Hamish had come up with such an ingenious plan, because here was the cause of all his problems walking through the door. Shaking himself firmly, he turned on his customary businesslike smile. “Ah, 007. Back in one piece are we? I need to bring you up to speed on the data we’ve processed while you were away.”

If Bond was at all confused or offended that Hamish made no mention of last night’s conversation, he didn't show it. Instead, the agent looked as composed as ever, taking his time in approaching. Clearly, it was to be one of those _never-to-be-mentioned-upon-pain-of-death_ things, which was absolutely fine by Hamish. For the best, really, and perfectly in line with his plan.

Mid-way across the room, Bond paused to examine a stack of blueprints. “Is this supposed to be an exploding pen, Q?” he asked in amusement.

“Don’t be absurd,” Hamish snapped back. Honestly, these people watched far too many trashy spy films. “The pen is a miniaturised stun-gun, capable of delivering up to one million volts of pure energy. It’s the cufflinks that explode.”


	8. Background checks

“Oh God,” Bond groaned, staring at the door to the testing centre. “What the hell is Mycroft Holmes doing here?”

“Don’t ask me,” Eve replied. “He was supposed to be in a meeting with M all day.”

The agent rounded on her. “What? You _knew_ he was in the building and you didn't warn me?”

“Why do you think I was hanging around in Q-branch? Its not like I enjoy watching you two blow things up.”

The two descended into bickering and Hamish stifled a snicker from behind his clipboard. Honestly, the country was defended by children some days. But sure enough, there was his uncle walking towards them, sending agents and technicians alike running for cover. A strained hush fell across the room, and even Eve and Bond shut up as approached.

“Quartermaster. I trust your work is progressing well?” He offered his hand, and Hamish shook it with gritted teeth.

“Mycroft.” And God, the smug bastard was loving this. “What do you want? I’m busy.”

In an instant, the hush became a silence. Hamish felt Bond and Eve freeze beside him for a moment. The agent subtly moved his hand towards his weapon, as if expecting to have to put himself between his Quartermaster and a murderous politician at any second. And by the smirk on Mycroft’s face, he had noticed the movement as well. Dammit Bond, trust you to go all protective when my family’s around. Way to paint a target on your chest. His uncle considered the agent for a second before turning back to Hamish.

“I have, if you would consider, a proposition for you. A personal favour which-“

“No.”

“I must ask that-“

“ _No_.”

“You haven't even heard what it is yet.”

Hamish’s eyes flashed. “I don’t need to Mycroft. Because whatever you want, I really don't care. I don't go in for all your bureaucratic bullshit and you know that. Find yourself another lackey.”

Ignoring the stunned faces around him, Hamish turned back to his clipboard. Perhaps he was being too harsh on his uncle, but something about Mycroft’s presence in his branch rubbed Hamish up the wrong way. He knew that Mycroft would never stop sticking his nose into his family’s life, because it simply wasn't in his nature to stop. But The Work had always been sacred ground where his fathers were concerned, a sort of no-fly zone safe from his meddling. Hamish had hoped he might be extended the same courtesy, but it would appear not.

He felt his uncle’s glare for a few more seconds, but made no move to meet his eyes. Eventually, Mycroft huffed. “Very well, Quartermaster. Do let me know if you feel like reconsidering, I have a number of… _extra-curricular ac_ tivities that might interest you. I can show myself out.”

Hamish refused to rise to the last taunt, keeping his eyes firmly down until he heard the doors click behind him. Eve breathed out and Bond uncoiled slightly.

“Christ, Q, do you have a death wish or something?” she asked.

He simply shrugged. “I’m not scared of Mycroft Holmes.”

“You should be.” Bond replied. “Honestly, what the hell were you thinking? You know what he can do, right?”

“And he knows what I can do. We have an understanding. Could you pass me the C60 prototype?”

His tone suggested that he would be in no way elaborating on what sort of arrangement they had. His friends were curious, but they had been in the business long enough to understand secrets, and Hamish trusted them to let it go. That should have been the end of it, but unfortunately, he couldn't say the same of Mycroft.

Despite the fact he didn't set foot in Q-branch, Hamish was increasingly aware of his uncle’s influence over the following weeks. Whether it was the CCTV cameras turning to follow him, a black car parked outside Vauxhall Cross which he pointedly ignored, or an extra crackle on the comms of another bug he needed to destroy, Hamish was fast growing tired of the passive aggressive bollocks. If Mycroft wanted something, he knew where he lived. Otherwise, he was welcome to get the hell out of the way. Hamish was busy, after all. If he wasn't testing new weaponry he was guiding agents through missions or improving MI6’s cyber-security. Right now, he was occupied by trying to trace a paper trail of illegal activity around the world. The warehouse in Norway had just been the first in a sequence of set-ups that didn't quite make sense, and Hamish was devoting all his free time to tracking down the missing link, and really didn't have time to worry about an over-intrusive uncle.

Hamish should have know it would escalate, because every bloody Holmes had a flair for drama. But he wasn't expecting the panicked phone-call as he walked home one evening.

“Q?”

“Bond? What-“

“Oh thank God. I got to you first. Where are you?”

“About half way down Lambeth Walk. Why do-“

“Don’t go home. Don’t call anyone, and do exactly as I say.”

Hamish listened to 007’s instructions with a growing sense of dread. His tone was deadly serious as he relayed directions, and that only ever meant trouble of the very worst kind. In his head, he began to compile a list of possible reasons behind it, and none of them were good. Hamish really did have a troublingly long list of enemies for one so young when he stopped to think about it. But now there was no time to stop and think, only to do. True, Hamish wasn't a field operative, but between being brought up by a detective and five years working for the British intelligence service, he had picked up a number of skills that allowed him to make his way to Bond’s designated location safe in the knowledge he had been neither noticed nor followed. Said location turned out to be an underground car park - clearly it wasn't just the Holmes’s with a flair for the dramatic. “Ok, I’m here,’ Hamish said, reattaching his ear piece. “Where are you?”

Bond, _of course_ , replied by dropping down from the ceiling, seizing him by the shoulders and slamming him into the wall. “What the hell did you do, Q?”

“ _What_?” Hamish tried in vain to focus on the situation at hand, and not the strength of the agents arms as he pinned him in place, nor the proximity of his face, just inches from his own. This really wasn't the time to think about such things.

“Don’t screw with me on this.” Bond’s voice was steel, and his grip even more so. “You must have done something to make your own government so interested in you. And not in the good way.”

Hamish blinked, rapidly racking his brain for anything he had done recently that could land him in trouble, but could think of nothing. Nothing worse than usual anyway. “I don't have a clue what you’re talking about Bond. And I think now would be a great time to tell me just what the hell is going on.”

Bond paused, his blue eyes narrowing as if searching out any lies behind Hamish’s own, but after a second nodded and released his hold on the quartermaster. Hamish breathed out heavily, ignoring the only mingling feelings of relief and disappointment. “Well?”

Bond scowled. “I was picked up this afternoon by one of those unmarked black cars, the sort that just screams suspicious. At first I thought it was one of M’s set-ups, it had that sort of feel to it, but we pulled up at an old warehouse, with a government suit waiting. One of the serious ones, the sort of man you don't mess with.”

“Bond-“

“And he starts talking. About you. He wants to know how closely I know you, what Q-branch is working on, what our working relationship is. And I know for a fact this man has clearance level Ultra so he's not asking around for a joke.”

“Bond-“

“And then he starts the threats. He tells me I need to keep my distance, for my own good, that you’re not someone I should be associating with, so I’m left here wondering what the bloody fuck you’ve got mixed up in to make the government so-“

“ _Bond_!” Hamish all but shouted this time, finally succeeding in interrupting him. The pieces were falling horribly into place as the agent talked. “This man, the government suit. please tell me it wasn't Mycroft Holmes.”

His eyes narrowed again. “So you do know what’s going on here.”

Hamish slumped back against the wall, biting back a noise that was somewhere between a groan and hysterical laughter. “Jesus, I’m going to kill him. No one in the government’s coming for me, and I’ve done nothing wrong. This is… _personal_.”

“I’m sorry? You know Mycroft Holmes?”

Hamish grimaced. “Unfortunately. He threatened you, yes? Clearly you’ve hit the radar as a bad influence on me, He’s a little overprotective, you could say.”

“Overprotective? You must be joking.”

Hamish didn't bother to reply, judging his stoney expression expression would convey how much he wished he was. The two men stood in silence in the shadows, reflecting on how truly messed up their lives were.

“So when you said you had an arrangement… Are you and he…?”

“What?” Hamish almost choked. “No, God No!”

Bond grinned. “Yeah, somehow I didn't think so.”

“Jesus 007, the man’s about fifty. I do have some standards, you know.”

“I wouldn't be so sure.”

Hamish paused mid-chuckle. There was something in the tone of Bond’s voice that he couldn’t decipher, underneath the lighthearted smile. He wouldn't go as far as to call it suggestive, but Hamish was struggling to come up with a better label. Shit, he wasn’t good at this, digging through the subtext and suggestion to work out what people were really trying to say. He was much better left to his machines; a computer couldn't lie to you, after all, and that was really for the best.

“He’s my uncle, if you must know.”

Now it was Bond’s turn to stop mid-laugh. “Uncle? Wow. Are all your family such bloody over-achievers?”

“You have no idea.”

\--

Mycroft had never understood the sentiment that accepting a desk job was settling. Especially when it came with such a nice desk as this one. Genuine teak. And right now he was particularly fond of it, as it held his ringing telephone, the number of his nephew flashing up on the ID. Hamish calling him was practically unprecedented; the boy seemed to resent his every attempt to protect him. Not that that was anything new for Mycroft, he had been dealing with contrary Holmeses since the age of seven after all.

But still, he was intrigued. There was a very limited list of reasons he could fathom for the phone call, and seeing as his office assured him there was no impending national disaster, it wasn't Mummy’s birthday for another five months, and no one currently trying to kill his nephew was anywhere close to succeeding, they were all wide of the mark. So it was with great interest that Mycroft picked up the receiver.

“Why hello, Hamish. What can I do for you today.”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Mycroft? You thought you’d just pick up one of my agents for a little chit chat?”

He really was angry, Mycroft realised as he noted the rare slip into the expletive. But yes, perhaps this situation should have been higher on the list now he considered it.

“Really, this is hardly the first background check I have conducted. You know how precarious your security situation is.”

“Background check? You kidnapped and threatened a 00 agent. This man has a licence to kill for God’s sake! And furthermore, how bloody _dare_ you? I’m not a child anymore.”

“Yet you still insist on acting like one.”

“Says the man who has to personally vet every one of his nephews acquaintances to satisfy some messed up control complex.”

“Acquaintance? Please don't insult my intelligence Hamish. James Bond is hardly a mere acquaintance.”

“I’ll insult whatever I like, considering who he is is none of your damn business.” But Mycroft heard the slight strain in his nephew’s voice and knew he had hit a nerve. That confirmed that, then.

“Please tell me you didn't break the habit of a lifetime and call me just to shout. We’re both busy men after all.”

“Oh no.” And this time, the tone was a lot more dangerous. “I simply called to give you some warning. I was running some security checks and it would appear your emails have been hacked. _Shocking_ I know, and we are making every attempt to catch the culprit here at Q-branch. But in the meantime it would appear a message has been sent to your mother, offering to take her to the theatre tomorrow afternoon. It’s a matinee performance of Marry Poppins, she’s very excited.”

Mycroft felt his blood run cold. Somewhere, in some small portion of his brain not yet frozen in shock, he was impressed with the ruthless streak the boy had inherited. But mostly he was just horrified. “I could have you arrested.” he growled down the phone.

“I’m sure you could. But would that excuse you from spending the afternoon with Granny?”

He opened his mouth and closed it again, incapable of producing an answer.

“Do send her my love,” Hamish’s voice was sugar sweet as he hung up, and Mycroft buried his face in his hands upon the lovely teak desk, feeling decidedly less smug than he had minutes earlier. These Holmses would be the absolute death of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait just a second - was that just a random little change-in-POV section two thirds of the way through a fanfic for no apparent reason? In the immortal words of Severus Snape: Can anyone tell me what foreshadowing is? 
> 
> (Or maybe I just really like writing Mycroft, who knows...)


	9. Fatherly advice

A plate exploded in a shower of white china. Another followed in quick succession, then a mug and two saucers. The only sounds in the deserted room were their shattering, the sharp snaps of rifle fire and a continuous string of angry muttering. Crack. Another plate fell to the floor in fragments.

“What did the crockery ever do to you?”

Hamish jumped. He hadn't heard 007 enter the room, but made no effort to look at him, instead electing to reload his weapon. “It’s this or the systematic destruction of my office. This is cheeper, trust me.”

“I know you’re angry, but-“

“ _Angry_?” Hamish fought to keep his voice from shaking. “Four months, Bond. We’ve been chasing these people for four months. They’re up to their necks in everything; weapons shipping, extremist propaganda, human trafficking, you name it. The worst of the worst. We finally get a lead, a chance to take the bastards out, and what does M say? Not a significant threat. So yeah, I’m pretty damn angry. And I don't need you to tell me how to handle it, thank you very much.”

Bond allowed him to rant without interruption, an infuriating smirk on his face. “I was just going to suggest you shot something that actually exploded. Much more satisfying.”

Hamish huffed, but allowed himself to smile. “You’re talking from experience?”

“You could say that. Although I doubt my reasons were anywhere near as noble as yours.”

For some reason Hamish felt vaguely offended, although he couldn't say why. “It just makes me wonder what the hell we’re doing here, if not facing up to guys like this.”

Bond shook his head softly. “You’re too good for this world, Q. Too good for the likes of us anyway.” And then he was gone, leaving Hamish to stare after him and wonder if perhaps the agent was human after all.

 

The brutal murder of crookery was only step one in Hamish’s plan to cheer himself up. The second stage was, and always had been, a simple cup of tea somewhere untouched by the all consuming world of MI6. Which was how he found himself that afternoon standing outside 221b Baker Street, looking up at the familiar building with fondness. He still had a key of course, but decided it might be safer to knock. Who knew what would be going on up there after all.

The door was opened by Mrs Hudson (still answering the door for his fathers it would seem, despite her advanced age.) She stared at him, before sweeping him into a surprisingly strong hug.

“Oh Hamish,” she said with genuine fondness, before hitting him on the arm. “You should have called sooner. I miss my boys when you’re away.”

He supposed he would always be included as one of her boys, despite the fact he hadn't lived here for close to six years now. It was an oddly cheering thought. “Sorry, Mrs H. Work’s been a little crazy lately. My dads in?”

“You go right on up. I’ll pop the kettle on.”

Really, the woman was a saint. Briefly wondering if he could somehow take her on in his office, Hamish climbed the familiar stairs. Probably best no to; The British secret service would implode, and Baker Street would crumble to dust within the week. Muffled shouts drifted down from the first floor, and he smiled, knowing some things would never change. Two more bone crushing hugs later, a fresh round of berating for not visiting more often, and Hamish found himself sitting on the old sofa, laughing as his fathers recounted a recent case.

“So of course Sherlock, the berk, decides its a great idea to break into this library in the middle of the night to catch the forgers red handed. Not that he tells me this until we’re climbing through the window.”

“I thought it was obvious,” Sherlock protested.

“And we end up having to knock this guy out, though not before he’s fired off a couple of rounds in our direction. And does your father stop to check I’m ok? No, he goes straight over to the shelf we were hiding behind, and starts lamenting over some old book with a hole shot through it!”

“It was a first edition copy of Dr Zhivago, John. Do you have any idea how rare that is?”

“Even rarer now, I suppose,” Hamish grinned. “Honestly, you two are still completely mad.”

“Problem?”

“Not at all.”

“You really need to come over for dinner sometime,” John said, refilling is cup. “A proper meal I mean, not the odd cup of tea. Bring that bloke of yours if you want.”

Hamish froze for a second, before sighing heavily. _Mycroft_. “He’s not my bloke, not in any way you could possibly imagine.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth as if to argue, but John delivered an extremely unsubtle blow to the ribs and he appeared to change his mind.

“Bring him along anyway. We don't know any of the people you work with anymore.”

Hamish smiled weekly. “You really think that inviting an MI6 agent with a licence to kill over for dinner is a good idea?”

“We’ve done crazier, I’m sure,” John said with a grin, but a tone that brokered no argument. Hamish wanted to protest, but was cut off by a the ringtone of his phone. There was a very select group of people with access to his number, and none were the type you could ignore. _Dammit_.

“One second,” he said smiling apologetically, and walked out into the corridor. “Yes?”

“That group of yours has been active again. An explosion at a factory in Delhi.” Bond said it with far more excitement than was probably decent, as if describing a surprise party. “M’s reconsidered, and the mission’s a go. Get your backside down here or you’ll miss all the fun.”

He hung up and Hamish sighed, torn between extreme satisfaction and annoyance. It was one of those moments he simultaneously loved and hated his job. Not that it mattered what he felt about it though; a summons from HQ wasn't a choice.

It must have been written all over his face when he re-entered the sitting room, because both Sherlock and John immediately frowned.

“It’s fine, we understand. You’ve got to go and save the country or something,” Sherlock said, before Hamish could begin to apologise.

“Or something,” he agreed.

John offered to walk him out, and paused on the doorway. “Look, Mish, I know you said that that you and this guy aren’t together-“

“God Dad, are we going to do this now? Fate of the world, remember?”

“Yeah, I know, but just listen would you? It’s not my place to tell you how to live your life, but I wasted years of my life ignoring how I felt about Sherlock. Don’t be an idiot like I was yeah? And keep in touch, your old dads worry.”

“Course,” he promised, deciding to try and process the fatherly advice at a later date, when he could afford the time and brain-space to properly freak out. Right now, he had a job to do.

 

“You’re really going?” Eve asked for the fourth time. “To Spain?”

“We need him on site,” Bond told her. “He’s the only one who can get into their systems.”

Hamish nodded in agreement, running through a list of preparations in his head. He had never actually been on an overseas mission before, apart from in someone’s earpiece, and it was easier not to focus on it too much. He had traced the group to a villa in spin weeks ago, but their servers were ludicrously well protected. The only way to break the systems would be from the inside.

“But it’s too dangerous!’ she protested. “Just drop it would you Eve? It’s happening. Q’s a big boy, he can handle himself.”

She glared at them both for a second. “I don’t like it. So don’t come running to me when you both get yourself blown up.” She stalked out the room, heels clicking along the polished floor.

“Good to know she has faith in me,” Hamish commented lightly.

“You are sure about this, though?” Bond asked. “It’s not too late to change the plans if-“

Hamish slammed the lid of his laptop down. “Not you too, 007. I’m coming on the mission and we’re taking this organisation down. End of. What were they called again? Spanish wasn’t it?”

“La Quema,” Bond replied, still looking at him with some concern. It means ‘The Burning’ or something.”

“How pretentious.”

“I quite agree,” They sat in silence for a minute, before Bond asked “So what’s the plan here?”

“Dinner.”

“What?”

Hamish hadn't meant to say that at all. He had been aiming for ‘ _diversionary tactics_ ’, but somehow the invitation had slipped out instead. And now he had to run with it. “Dinner. With my parents. When we get back, you should come with me and have dinner.”

Well, that was possibly the most awkward invitation he’d ever given. For a moment, the agent didn't reply. Hamish had just started to think he had made a terrible mistake, when Bond smiled. “I might just hold you to that, Q.”

Hamish felt relief wash over him for a full two seconds, before a whole new panic set in. John, Sherlock, and James Bond sitting around the same table? Perhaps it would be less painful just to let the terrorists kill him.


	10. Half a world away

A gunshot cracked across the comms, clear and sharp, and two more followed in quick succession. He could hear Bond’s panicked intake of breath, before he began too shout down the line.

“ _Fuck_! What the hell was that? Are you ok?”

Hamish smiled grimly. “If they think they’re going to get through me, they’ve got another thing coming."

“We should have stayed together. This is all my fault.”

“”Bollocks, Bond. You did what you had to do. Just shut up and let me work.”

It was with gritted teeth he managed to keep his voice steady. This was no-one’s fault, Hamish knew. He had signed up for this, knowing full well how south it could go, but they had been expecting a skeleton guard, a couple of hackers, nothing more. They certainly hadn't been ready for half a bloody army of mercenaries to show up, that was for sure. These people were good, he had to admit, luring them into a seemingly unprotected base. But Hamish was better. They wouldn't be a match for him at the best of times, and right now, he was bloody pissed off, and ten times as dangerous. His hands shook only slightly as he glanced at the two balaclava-clad bodies on the ground before him, before turning his attention back to the screen. It was good to know he was still as much of a crack shot as when John had taught him all those years ago. If only he had been a little quicker. But that couldn't be helped now.

Hamish continued to type, focusing on keeping his breathing even through the sharp pain in his stomach. If he really concentrated, he could keep telling himself that the only thing that mattered was on the screen. That he couldn't see the smears of red on the keyboard.

 

_Earlier_

“You’re loving this, aren't you? Being the big shot action hero?”

“I can’t say that I am, no. The air conditioning in this place is terrible.” In truth, Hamish had been fighting to keep a grin off his face the entire operation, but Bond didn't need to know that. Being right would only inflate his ego even more, and Hamish wasn't sure how much more that thing could take.

“Well, you definitely love having your own swat team to order around.”

“I fail to see how that differs from my day job. I spend my life babysitting you lot,”

“Nice try but no.” Bond turned to the agent next to him. “Q’s loving this, you know.”

Hamish rolled his eyes, but allowed a smile to sneak across his face as he hooked his laptop up to the system. It had been surprisingly easy to gain access to the villa, or maybe the team of agents around him were just that good. They had met minimum resistance, sweeping through the building in minutes, clearing the way for Hamish to do his work.

“Don’t you have a perimeter to patrol or something?” He asked after a couple of minutes, because the 00 seemed to be doing nothing but standing around.

“I’d sooner stay here and enjoy the show.” There was no mistaking that tone of voice. God help him, the man was incorrigible.

“Your next radio is going to blow up in your face,” he promised.

Bond started to laugh, but the sound was drowned out by an alarm screaming out. Hamish rushed over to the screen, trying to pull up the surveillance videos. “We’ve got incoming through the south gate. Just let me- _Shit_!”

“What is it?”

“They’ve jammed the bloody cameras.”

The agents face was unreadable for a moment, then he slipped into the cold, focused mask of a field operative. It was eery to watch. “How long do you need?”

 _Too long._ “Another six minutes, at least.”

“You have five. Then I’m pulling you the fuck out of here.”

Hamish watched him disappear through the door, followed by the rest of his team, and swallowed. This was usually the type of situation he flourished in: controlling operations through an earpiece and working out how to salvage a mission when it all went to shit. But now he was at the other end of the earpiece, and out of his depth. Briefly, he remembered a conversation he had had with Eve once, in a little bar half a world away. She had told him then what the field was like, any sense of control an illusion. He hadn't stopped to consider how right she had been. For a second he eyed his pack, wondering how quickly he could reach the pistol within it, before turning back to the screens without bothering to retrieve it. The clock was ticking, after all.

Which proved to be a big mistake when two black-clad men crashed through the door and opened fire, and everything went to hell.

 

 

 _Time_. It always came down to bloody time. Not enough of it, flying by, moving too quickly to keep track as his life hurtled on. And here he was, out of time again. Hamish knew without having to be told that his description program would never break through the system before the room was overrun. Nor would Bond reach him. One of his fathers was a doctor who went to war, the other made a living by tracking down criminals; he had seen enough gunshot wounds to know that time was something he didn't have.

Had John felt like this, Hamish wondered, when he lay bleeding out into the Afghan dust all those years ago? Did he know this panic, the rush of regret and anger and a hundred tiny things you wanted to have done better? _No_. John was a soldier at heart, a braver and better man than his son could ever hope to be, and he wouldn't have been so helpless. No, John would… In a rush, Hamish knew what he had to do, the only thing he could hope to achieve now as his life slipped through the hour glass. Slowly, his crimson-stained hand flipped a switch, and he herd the clang of a bolt in the door behind him.

“We have a problem,” Bond’s voice crackled through his earpiece. _No shit_. “The security system’s going into lockdown.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. Slight change of plan.”

“Q _,_ ” There was a raw edge to his voice that Hamish had never heard before. “What have you done?”

“Giving myself time to break through the systems.”

"Are you mad? You're still in there!"

"Oh really? I hadn't noticed." Hamish attempted a laugh, and immediately regretted it. A sharp stab of pain shot through his body, and he gripped the edge if the desk, knuckles white. 

" _Q!"_

Hamish realised his laugh had turned into a cry of pain. “It’s nothing. You need to get to a secure location.” 

“Not a chance. Just hold tight, and we’ll get to you.” Bond sounded so certain, Hamish could almost believe him. Almost. 

“I thought I got to boss you lot around? Get your arse out of here, and that’s an order.” 

“Since when have you ever been able to order me around?”

Hamish hit the last command on the keyboard, and watched as the download bar began to turn green. When it was full, MI6 would know every last detail about about this group so intent on bringing terror to his country. And if he didn't consider that worth it, he wouldn’t have been his fathers’ son. Almost in relief, he allowed himself to slide to the floor so that he was sat propped up against the desk , legs no longer able to take the weight.

“That’s true,” he replied, smiling sadly. “Never made things dull, that.” His vision was starting blur, but Hamish gripped his pistol all the same. Damn if he was going to take this without a fight. “Bond?” 

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry about dinner. I would have liked that.” And he meant it. Hamish saw that now, bitterly clear. He would have liked dinner, and the nervous energy dates, and Bond’s ridiculous flirting over the comms, and not caring in the least what the rest of MI6 thought about it. He would have liked everything that was James Bond, and all the wonderful mayhem that came with it. 

A crash came from behind the doors, and Hamish knew it wouldn't be long now. The only question was whether La Quema would get to him before the end. He almost wished they wouldn’t. “We’re still on for that,” Bond protested. I’ve bought wine for your parents and everything. Don't be stupid.”

"I already have been." 

With a grunt of pain, Hamish reached up and switched his earpiece off. He wouldn't let Bond hear him die, wouldn't do that to him. Even if it meant facing it alone. Another crash, this one shaking the door echoed through the room. Ignoring the pain flooding his body and how heavy his eyelids had suddenly become, Hamish lined up his pistol.

And when, minutes later, Bond charged through the door gun in hand, he was greeted by the dead silence of an empty room, the only activity a green bar flashing on one of the screens. There was a smear of blood on the desk, and a pistol lying discarded on the floor. 

And Hamish was gone. 

\- -

John had learnt years ago to cherish the rare pockets of peace in his life. Right now, the flat was empty and blissfully quiet apart from the gentle drumming of rain upon the roof, and he was taking full advantage of the opportunity to finish his book. Not that John could ever live like this; he would go mad in less than a week without his daily doses of mayhem, but every now and again it was nice to take a break from the madness and simply be. 

His crazier half was at Barts, trying to swindle the newbies out of some body parts. Unsuccessfully, if a string of disgruntled texts were anything to go by. That had been one upside when Molly had moved to a research hospital in the states several years ago: a dramatic decrease in organs taking up their fridge space. He should send her another email, John mused, and find out if she had any plans to come home and visit. 

His train if thoughts was cut off by the sound of the doorbell. He considered a moment: It was too soon to be the chow main he had ordered, clients usually made appointments these days, and Harry was out of town for another week. Hamish, maybe? The boy refused to use his key for some reason, and he had promised to visit more often. But that was most likely wishful thinking on John's part. 

Intrigued, John went downstairs. The rain was falling heavily now, no doubt a storm had finally broken after days of oppressive heat. Somehow, he doubted Sherlock would have thought to take an umbrella, the idiot. It would serve him right if he caught pneumonia out in the downpour. 

But all thoughts of his husband fled as John opened the door, greeting dying on his lips. The man on his doorstep had failed to bring an umbrella too, and his tailored suit was soaked through to the skin. Blonde hair was plastered to a face that John only had to look at to know had seen war. There was something in the way he held himself, a slight gleam behind ice-blue eyes that spoke of danger and made John’s fingers itch for a weapon. Or would have, if the eyes didn't too hold so much desperation. 

“John Watson?” There was a slight tremble in his voice, so far at odds from the type of man John knew from experience this should be, and found he could only nod his reply. 

“I’m sorry we have to meet like this, truly. I’m-“ 

He broke of, swallowing thickly and John felt dread, heavy and cold, settle in his stomach. The mere sight of the man had been enough to put him on edge but now alarms were screaming. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.  _Hamish?_  he wanted to ask, but the words wouldn't make it past his throat . 

“- I’m here about your son. He’s going to need our help.”


	11. All the king's horses

_Lights flicker on and off overhead. Somewhere an old fan creaks and clicks. Voices shouting, whispering, barking out instructions, in languages he can’t understand. He should know what they are saying, some part of his knows that, but he simply can’t summon the energy to care. Rough hands take hold of him, lift him away from the cold ground. They are tearing at his shirt, exposing his stomach, and the blood seeping from it. Someone applies pressure, a blade glints in the shifting light. He should be afraid, but there is no room left in his mind now to consider anything but the pain, red hot and rising up through his body in crescendo waves. The bade flashes again and someone screams. It might even be him.The hands hold him down once more, and there is the tiniest prick of a needle against his neck, barely registering. And then there is only the darkness once more._

 

The boxes of noodles sat stone-cold on the table, completely untouched. No-one had much of an appetite, unsurprisingly. Despite not having eaten anything for God-knows-how-many hours now, James found that the smell only made him feel faintly sick. His thoughts were stuck on a loop; Q, too late, blood on the floor, Q, missing, all his fault, trail cold, Q. He wasn’t some greenie, he knew the risks of the work he did, and this was hardly the first man he had lost. But he was the only one that mattered. James saw that now, the irony bitter on his tongue, just as he saw with absolute clarity what he must do to make this right.

They were sitting around the kitchen table of 221b, all usual clutter swept aside in place of maps, charts, anything that could give a clue as the the movements of _La Quema_. Sherlock had frozen still when he had herd the name of the organisation, what little colour remaining in his cheeks draining away.

“You don’t think-“

“No.” The doctor’s voice had been gentle, but something had flashed momentarily behind his eyes as he crossed to his husband. “Absolutely not. He’s gone love, he’s ancient history. He can’t hurt us anymore.”

There was a story there, James could tell, a ghost still hanging over them. It didn't surprise him that Q’s family had never been a normal one, but this wasn’t the time to ask.

“But it fits John! I don’t know how but it fits!”

“No it doesn’t. We need to think straight here. It’s just a coincidence, that's all.”

“Doctor Watson, we’ve taught you far better than that.”

James turned to see who had spoken. Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway with an umbrella in one hand, and a look of absolute fury plastered across his face. He seemed out of place in this cosy, cluttered flat away from the pomp of HQ, but everything about his movements was at odds from the man who walked the halls of Vauxhall Cross.  “Now can someone please kindly inform me why I’m only just hearing about this? I am your first phone-call, Sherlock, your _very first call_ in this situation. We agreed. I have influence, contacts, favours to call in-”

“And yet you still let him walk in there.” The detective spoke softly, but the sharpness of the accusation cut accrues the room like a knife. “All your power, and you couldn’t even protect one boy.”

“He’s not a child, Sherlock.” “He’s my _son!_ And this is your doing, ever since you let him sign up to play spies-“

“Shut up, both of you!” James hadn't meant to shout, but this wasn't helping anything. Q was out there somewhere, and all his family could do was pass blame around. “This isn’t the time. We’ve got work to do.” Mycroft looked at James, as if noticing him for the first time.

“007, I should have guessed you would be here. Were you planning on informing MI6 of your being alive at any point?”

He shook his head. “They’d only call me in. This way’s better. I can operate outside the system and find Q quicker.”

He had expected arguments, or at the least disapproval, but all three men nodded as if it were perfectly logical reasoning. This was Q’s family, after all, James reminded himself.

“Hamish,” John said softly. “His name is Hamish Watson-Holmes. If you’re going to do this, I need to know that matters to you. He may be your Quartermaster, he may have half of our state secrets inside his head, but I honestly couldn't give a damn about that. He’s our son, and that’s what comes first.”

James looked at him. There was a look of such fierce protection on John’s face, and for the first time it wasn't hard to see the soldier in him, strong as steel and utterly unyielding in the face of those who would do his loved ones harm. In that moment, it wasn’t the politician who wielded the power to ensure no-one ever found his body, or the genius with the mind to cut him to ribbons in seconds that James thought he might fear. It was the man wearing an oversized jumper and bloody murder in his eyes.

Q, no,  _Hamish_ , was lucky to have him, to have them all, and a good thing too if they were going to bring him home. He nodded.

 

 _His eyelids are heavy, unnaturally so. It is an effort to open them, and he is half tempted to keep them shut and drift back into oblivion. Or he would be, if not for the nagging sensation that something is wrong, something just beyond his recollection. Come on Hamish, he thinks (for that is his name, he’s sure it means something important), look alive. They’re counting on you. Just who they are supposed to be isn't an easy question but he tries anyway, forcing himself to think through the circling fog. Theres a name there, one that means something, no, everything, and if he could just reach it… Hamish drags himself through the murky layers of sleep, and JAMES. Oh, God,_ James _._

 _It all comes back in a flood: The mission that went so terribly wrong, the panic in Bond’s voice, the fear and desperation and the pain of - of_ bloody hell _, the pain of being shot. He had been shot in the stomach, felt himself bleed out, die… Except clearly that hasn't happened, unless he was already dead? He sits up, and immediately winces. Not dead then, if everything could still hurt like hell. Cautiously, Hamish lifts his (unfamiliar, not his) shirt, to see the layers of bandages criss-crossing his abdomen. Not hospital precision, but skilfully applied all the same. He frowns, confused; surely to shoot him then save his life makes little sense, especially for the organisation he was dealing with. Not that he’s complaining, but life saving isn't usually included on the resume of international terrorists. There’s something deeper going on here, and Hamish for one isn't sure he wants to find out what. If only Bond would hurry up and get here, then-_

_Oh God, did Bond know where he was? Did anyone? Did they even know he was still alive? The last the agent knew of him, he was bleeding out on a dusty floor, saying his (admittedly crap) version of a goodbye across the comms. Hamish hugs his knees to his chest, seeking his own body warmth as he considers his position. If Bond believed him dead, if his parents had been told the same, if no-one was coming for him… Well, he’ll just have to keep himself alive until he can work his own way out of this mess._

 

John tapped against the armchair’s fabric, restless. He hated this, not being able to do anything productive with a burning passion, and it was taking every inch of his self control to keep himself in the flat, and not out there looking for his son. But right now, he knew there was nothing he could do to help. Sherlock deep inside his mind palace, processing data from hours spent pouring over maps. Mycroft was outside on the phone, his voice a murmur. John decided he didn't want to know who he was speaking to, or what about. if it got Hamish home, the politician could pull every dirty trick in the book. And in the kitchen, Bond was deep into MI6’s servers on a borrowed laptop. John thought back to all the times Hamish had probably hacked the same site in that very room smiling sadly, then frowned as reality bled back in and it was not his son but this stranger in his place. He didn’t trust this James Bond not by a long shot. The man was dangerous, a walking grenade that would take out everyone close to him when he finally went off, andJohn only had too look at him to know that he left a trail of destruction wherever he want. Under any other circumstance, John might well do everything he could to keep the man away. But right now, he was running out of choices but to grudgingly work with the man if it would save his son. God knows he had served with worse to achieve less. And besides, this man had put everything on the line, protocols, his career, his freedoms, for Hamish. That wasn’t something John would forget any time soon.

“I have something!” Bond called out, and John was at his side in an instant. Several different windows were open on the screen, including a video link to a girl who would be exceedingly pretty, if not for the bags under her eyes and worry across her face.

“Thanks, Monneypenny. I owe you one.” Bond said.

“You owe me nothing.” She replied with a small smile. “Just bring him home.”

The call ended, and Bond brought up a series of files. “Fresh from MI6,” he announced grimly. “This is everything we have on _La Quema_ , direct from their own servers.”

“How did you manage to get your hands on this information?” Mycroft asked, in something approaching awe. John hadn't heard him finish his call nor enter the room. “This is quite remarkable.”

“Q.” Bond replied. “He managed to get into their systems and send us everything, even with the bastards breaking down the door.”

John opened his mouth, and closed it again. Their brave, brilliant son. He had inherited the best of all their family really; Sherlock’s genius, John’s determination and Mycroft’s absolute loyalty to his country. He was showing them how to find him, even from behind enemy lines he was fighting on. And they owed it to him to do the same.`

John knew with all certainty that any one of them in the room would be willing to burn down the world to get Hamish home. Perhaps, out of any of them, John would be the only one to question the morals of the situation, but he would still do anything it took without any hesitation. Perhaps that made him a bad person, but honestly he didn’t care. He had made the decision to do anything for the ones he loved, since his very first case with Sherlock, and it hadn’t changed since.

He turned to his husband who was staring at the screen, face unreadable. “Can you work with this? Can you find him?”

“You just watch me.”

 

_Without his watch or any natural light, theres’s no telling how long he sits on the cold stone floor before they come for him. The time the door is unbolted with a clang, his muscles have worked themselves into stiff knots, so it is with some difficulty he stands as the door swings open. Perhaps he has been watching too many bad films lately, but he almost expects some sort of mob boss, complete with gold necklace and cigar. So it is a surprise when the unassuming man, thin, sharply dressed, black hair being to grey walks through the door. Although his guards, two tall burley men are walking cliches. Ludicrously, Hamish thinks back to the first time he had met M, flanked by the men in Black agents. If they had been J and K, these guys are the creepy bug monsters, all muscle and no mercy._

_“Hola Sr. Holmes. Espero que mis muchachos no hayan sido demasiado ásperos.”_ Hello Mr Holmes. I hope my boys haven’t been too rough.

_He speaks Spanish fluently, but not natively, Hamish can tell. There is a slight lilt to his voice that he cann't quite place, but for now he can’t be bothered with translating._

_"_ Watson _-Holmes. And their hospitality is a bit lacking."_

_The man chuckles. “Ah siento. You do understand? Last minute preparations and all that.”_

_Hamish frowned. “Last minute?”_

_“But of course. When I heard you were coming, I simply had to change my little party plans. We can’t have the guest of honour dead now can we?”_

_So much for any hopes these people didn’t know who he was. What they want from him isn’t clear yet, but it doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to realise he’s sitting on some pretty important state secrets (and more than one that was a secret from the state as well.)_

_“I should probably point out I’m not going to tell you a thing. Just in the interests of saving some time here.”_

_“Ah, you boys. So brave, so loyal to your country.” The man sounds fond, endeared even, and Hamish wonders whether he’s slightly unhinged. Then again, running a Spanish terrorist cell and kidnapping one of England’s most valuable assets aren’t exactly the actions of a perfectly sane man._

_“But don’t you worry your pretty little head, I already know most everything you could possibly tell me. It’s not what I want from you, it’s what I want you to do. Namely sit tight and wait for all the kings horses to come charging to the rescue.”_

_The suited man is close now, almost whispering into Hamish’s ear, and it takes every ounce of his self control not to deck him, get this repulsive human being away from him. No doubt the bug boys would object to that, unfortunately. Why couldn’t his country make some sane enemies for a change? No doubt this is one of Bond’s; he always seemed to get the unhinged ones, and this is undoubtedly somehow his fault. But as much as he is ready to scream bloody murder at the agent, Hamish’s blood chills. He’s gotten himself into this mess because he won’t let Bond walk into a trap for his sake, so damn if he’s going to let that happen now._

_In a moment of probable madness, he lunges at the man, seizing him by the tie. Predictably, the two thugs pull him off in seconds, throwing him to the stone floor. He curls in on himself, expecting a beating, but the fists never come. Instead, when he looks up, Suit has thrown his arms up to stop them._

_“_ _Big mistake, Mr Holmes. You’re lucky I need you pretty.”_

_Hamish stays down until he hears the door clang shut behind them, and listens to the retreating footsteps. Only when he is sure they have long gone does he sit up, open his clenched fist and look down at the silver tie pin resting in his palm._

 

 

“We are all agreed then?”

Sherlock didn’t bother to answer Mycroft, merely giving a half nod of the head. All his focus was on the blurry satellite image in front of him, depicting an old medical outpost in the foothills of the pyrenees. He glared at the building, as if the intensity of his stare could somehow break through and split the place open. Ridiculous notion, he knew, but oddly calming to cling to. He couldn’t afford to loose control now and let his emotions get the better of him now, not with so much riding on getting this right. He could work with threats hanging over his head no problem; it was surprising how many cases could result in his death if he got it wrong. But now, if he got this wrong… Well, he just couldn’t afford to.

Around the table, the others murmured their consent to the plan. It had taken much arguing before they came to a solution everyone was happy with; not because they struggled to find one (it was eery how effective a team the four had become in such a short space of time), but because now everyone wanted to take matters into their own hands. Mycroft had wanted it carried out by his own forces, who were ‘specially trained for situations such as these’, and would no doubt be worse than useless. The Agent (Sherlock refused to think of his as anything else) had announced it would be too dangerous for civilians, and he would carry out a one-man operation. It had been at this point John had fixed him with a stare like death and pointedly asked who was planning on stopping him get his son back. Sherlock had fallen in love with him all over again, just for that. Hamish may not be the doctor’s by blood, but he was his son in every way that counted.

Mycroft was finally validating his existance by supplying a plane to take them to Spain, and kindly not informing the British intelligence service that one of their top operatives was still alive. If they actually managed this, Sherlock might be half way to forgiving his brother for getting Hamish involved in the first place. Only half way of course, some things were too deep for forgiveness. He wanted to get going immediately, but in the end Sherlock had had to bow down to the logic of timing their move wisely. Even if that meant waiting. Every second they delayed burned like fire through his veins, every second a burden weighing him down.

John took him aside some time later, pulling him into the kitchen. “Do you think we can trust him?” the doctor asked in hushed tones.

There was no asking who he was. Despite the bitterness, the years had shown that when it came down to the wire, Mycroft could be trusted. No, it was The Agent who was the unknown factor here, the man from MI6 who had been the last person to see his son. One glance was all it had taken to see his capacity for bloodshed, brutal past and tendency towards violence. Here was a man who lied and murdered for a living, not the the traditional definition of ‘trustworthy’. But then again, one glance was all it had taken for Sherlock to see the honesty in his eyes when he talked about Hamish, the guilt he felt and his determination to get him back.

“I don’t know.” he murmured. It was always painful to admit, even to John, but especially now when so much was riding on his instincts being correct. “But I don’t see that we have a choice.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.” There was silence for a moment, just the sound of John’s steady breathing in the darkening room. “Fine.” the doctor agreed finally, the reluctance clear in his voice. “But the first sign that something isn’t right…”

John’s fingers twitched slightly, a gesture Sherlock had long ago learned meant danger. There was a soldier within the man, usually invisible to all but him, and now it was being dragged to the surface for all to see. His tone was ominous, and Sherlock understood what that too meant. They had faced up to bigger men before, and now they were at their most dangerous. John do whatever it took, Sherlock too, without the slightest hesitation.

He nodded, a subtle movement in the fading light. The silent agreement passes between the two, a pact to do whatever it took to get their son home, no matter who was standing in the way or what government they belonged to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the style of this chapter was... let's call it an experiment. Would love to know how it reads.


	12. All the old rules

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the wait, my school doesn't seem to believe in weekends. Or free time. Or sleep. But while I stare down a my mountain of work, enjoy chapter 12! (And because I've messed up, its not even the last one) x

John hated this place from the moment he stepped outside. The dusty, oppressive heat forcefully reminded him of the hell-hole that had been Afghanistan. It put him on edge, twitchy and charged, even after all those years. Or maybe it was just because he knew this place to be evil, that somewhere out in these hills, someone was keeping his son from him.

He watched as Bond gave them a sharp nod, and disappeared down the hill. They had planned that he would take the bottom layer of the building, while John and Sherlock took the top. He had agreed to it, but now, watching the agent disappear, John was uncomfortable letting him out of his sight. He had agreed to work with the man, not to trust him, and if he did anything that could hurt his son, well, John wouldn’t be held responsible for the consequences.

The building was eerily quiet, giving every impression that it was as abandoned as it claimed to be. They met no challenge as John kicked in a rusting door and they moved down the empty corridors.

“What is this place?” he whispered.

“It was a medical outpost during the war.” Sherlock replied. “Used for storing equipment, preforming emergency surgery, that sort of thing.”

“Like a hospital, then.”

His husband didn’t bother to reply, continuing to scan the silent halls, face set in a stoney mask. It wasn’t the look of The Work, that at least held excitement and curiosity even at the worst moments. He wondered what it must be costing him, to have his two worlds collide in the worst possible way. God knew John was struggling, and he hadn't had to strip away all emotions and trust pure logic to find this place. All John had to do was to fight to protect his own, and he’d been doing that long before he met Sherlock.

They were sweeping the upper level, room by room, and so far all had proved empty, abandoned offices or storage rooms. Sherlock had given each a quick examination, but found nothing to give any indication of life, hostile or otherwise. But John knew they were in the right place. Aside from the fact that he had complete faith in Sherlock’s deductions, there was an evil feel to it. The walls just seeped hostility, in a way no-where had since Appledoor. Methodically, he went through the draws in the filing cabinet, one by one, eager to find anything that would get them away from here. So focused was he, John didn’t hear Sherlock until he repeated himself, a slight quiver to his voice.

“ _John_.”

He looked around at the object his husband was holding, and felt the colour drain from his face as comprehension dawned. It was small, the model years out of date by now yet still familiar as the day he had first seen the damn thing and horribly, undeniably, pink. And there was one new message.

The lock opened with a load clang and Hamish cursed under his breath, praying no-one had been close enough to hear that. Picking the lock had been a fiddly process (a tie pin was not the ideal tool, after all) but he had managed it in the end. Step 1, complete. Now what was stage 2 again? Realising he probably should have thought this through a little more, Hamish decided the only option was to keep moving. To where, he had no idea; come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure he was still in Spain, but anywhere had to be better than this.

Keeping low, he moved forward slowly, desperately wishing for his pistol. He felt naked without the comforting weight in his hands, and Hamish spared an idle thought to wonder if anyone had retrieved it from the villa. Running into any armed guards wouldn’t be in his best interests right now, as the only advantage he would posses was the element of surprise (well that wasn’t entirely true, but the plan half-formed in his mind could only work once, and then he would be well and truly screwed.) No, it would be best to avoid meeting anyone altogether, he decided. Of course, when coming to that conclusion, he hadn't expected to (quite literally) run into James Bond as he moved round a corner.

“Bond?”

“Q?”

The two stared at each other for a moment, incredulous disbelief mirrored in each face. Then the agent sagged with relief, pulling him into a bone crushing hug, the likes of which Mrs Hudson would have been proud of.

“Thank God you’re alive.”

“Of course I’m alive, idiot.” Hamish grumbled into the suit. “How else would I be?”

“Oh, I don’t know? Trying to sacrifice yourself for some half-baked mission? Bleeding to death on the floor? Being shot at? Making up some truly appalling last words?”

 _Ah, yes_. “Look, Bond, I-“

The agent cut him off. “Later. We can deal with all this later. We’re meeting up at the east exit in five minutes, and I’d hate to bump into anyone unpleasant before that.”

Deciding to skip over the way Bod had said _this_ , like it was so much more than a failed mission, Hamish looked down at him quizzically. if he had been feared dead, there wouldn’t be an MI6 strike team here to get him, so… “Who’s we?” he asked.

Now it was Bond’s turn to look guilty, an expression that clashed horribly with the whole badass-asassin thing he seemed to be going for. “Ok, don’t be angry. I though it was my best chance of finding you…”

“Bond…” he growled, horrible thought clicking into place. “Tell me you didn’t-“

But before he could finish, a crackle of static filled the room. Hamish looked wildly around for the source, before realising it was issuing from an old tannoy-style speaker.

“Do I have you attention yet, Mr Holmes? Have you worked it out yet? You must have by now, after all you’ve played this game before. You know the rules. The roof, two minutes, or that pretty little boy of yours won’t be quite so pretty any more. I’m waiting.”

The voice stopped with another burst of static, and Hamish’s eyes met Bond’s. “What the hell was that? If he thinks he can get to me by threatening you…”

“He doesn’t.” The agents eyes were grim.

“What do you mean? He said Mr Ho-“ Hamish stopped mid-sentence, the truth hitting him like an express train. He turned to Bond, a look of abject horror on his face. “Oh, God, you did.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes were still fixed on the words, taunting him from the phone’s screen.  _Are you burning yet?_

How could he have overlooked this? It had been his immediate though upon hearing the name _La Quema_ , but he had dismissed it almost as quickly. He had been thorough all those years ago, he had been sure all traces of the man would never hurt them again. He had given up two years of his life to ensure his family (just John at that point, but family none the less) were safe, and now that was wasted because it hadn’t been enough. Somehow, that twisted spider of a man was back after all this time, trying to tear his world apart.

And then the message had come over the tannoy, and his already chilled blood turned to solid ice. This was the endgame, the end of the road he had started walking aged just nine years old. But now there were other walking it with him, the two people he cared about most in the world, and if he put a step wrong it could get them killed.

“Sherlock-“ John’s voice was gentle.

“I have to go, John, can’y you see that?”

“I know, love. I’m coming with you.”

“You can’t!” Sherlock was panicking now. Usually, he considered John to be safest by his side and loathed any time he wasn’t. But now, with this spectre suddenly hanging over them in the flesh, all he wanted was his husband as far away from here as possible. He would not risk both of them.

“And who’s planning on stopping me?” There was no arguing with that voice of John’s, he knew. Sherlock nodded, hoping John understood all the things he wasn’t saying, all the things he had never been good at saying. But then again, John wouldn’t be here if he didn’t already know.

And together, in silence, the two men walked towards the stairs.

 

Through the tiny part of his mind not seized by utter panic, Hamish promised himself he would get the chance to kill Bond later because now really wasn’t the time for it, no matter how furious he was. Involving his parents in something like this, his parents who he purposely kept away from the other half of his life because they would never let him go back if he did, that was pretty much the opposite of what he wanted. He had been doing fine on his own, after all, and now the cavalry had come charging headfirst into a trap.

And not just any trap. Sherlock and John had tried to keep him from the worst of their past, but they seemed to have forgotten he was a Watson-Holmes; one part genius, one part stubbornness, and an extra spark of his own curiosity thrown in the mix. There was nothing he couldn’t find out if he set his mind to it, so he knew all too well what the stakes were here. He should have seen it sooner, ever since he first started looking into La Quema, but he had been so intent on refusing to let the two halves of his life come together that it hadn't even occurred to him that they could collide in the worst way imaginable.

“Give me a gun.”

“What?” “Give me a gun, Bond. I know you’ve got about twelve on you, and I’m going to need one.”

“Absolutely not. My mission is to get you out of here.”

“Your mission? This is my _family_! Take a moment, why don’t you, and work out which one I don’t give a flying fuck about right now! Or better yet, just give me a gun and get the hell out my way!”

The two stared each other down. Hamish may be a crack shot and trained in several different fighting styles, but this was a double-0 agent standing before him, and Bond had the power to drag him out of this building in seconds if he wanted to, he knew. Bond knew it. But instead the agent nodded once, reached inside his jacket, and pulled out a pistol. Hamish took it. Compact, slightly dented, and instantly familiar in his hands.

“Thought I’d lost this,” he muttered softly.

“Some things are worth saving.”

He looked up at Bond, blue eyes so full of truth. A beat passed. And he couldn’t have said who moved first, but suddenly his mouth was on the agent’s, soft lips and teeth clashing together in a rush. He pushed him back against the wall, hands running through the blonde hair, and through the surge of pumping blood and dizzy triumph, all he could think was _at last_.

They broke apart, Hamish stepping back as they both breathed heavily for a moment. Bond looked up at him.

“Roof?”

“Roof.”

Sherlock stood on the roof, allowing the cool evening breeze to ruffle his hair and the flaps of the coat. True, it was a horizon of barren hills he was looking over now, not the streets and roofs of the city he had grown to love, but it was hard not to feel as he had all those years ago, afraid for those he loved and running out of options, dancing to the tune of a madman. Except - no, it wasn’t the same. This time he had John standing by his side, strong and his and utterly unyielding in the face of those who would harm them. And that made all the difference.

“So here we are, Mr Holmes, back to the beginning again. Sorry I couldn’t find a real hospital, but you know how unreliable mercenaries can be.”

Sherlock froze at the voice. Because it wasn’t _him_ , not the voice that still called out from the depths of his nightmares. This voice was deeper, a slight lilt to it, but an edge of insanity to it all the same. Slowly he turned, to see an unassuming man in his fifties, dark hair beginning to grey, with a gun pointed straight at his heart. Being on the wrong end of a barrel was nothing new to Sherlock, and instead of being intimidated by this man, he began running through what he knew about him, what he could use against him.

 _Ex-military, but not for many years. Activities the wrong side of legal lately. No family, at least none that he is close to, and no significant other. Except -_ no _. One lover, one who meant more than any of the rest, but long gone now. Untreated psychological issues, remorseless killer, and despises Sherlock. Perhaps, reviewing the data, he would do well to be concerned about the pistol pointed in his direction after all._

“And what beginning would that be?” Sherlock strove to keep his voice light and polite. There was no sense in angering the man unnecessarily. Unfortunately this didn’t seem to work. His mouth twisted into a sneer.

“Don’t, don’t act like you don’t know. The roof? Where you killed him!” He spat out the words, and Sherlock found himself wondering how far over the edge this man had gone, as the truth clicked horribly into place. The one man in the network he had never found, who he had long assumed dead, or gone, or a useless puppet that would never threaten them. He had never imagined the pain in Moran’s eyes as he talked about Moriarty and - _oh_. _Oh, of course._ More than just a puppet then.

“I didn’t kill him.” He replied softly. “He managed that perfectly without my help.”

“Liar!” Moran shouted the word, and Sherlock decided the answer must be _very far gone indeed_. “You’re nothing but a liar Sherlock Holmes, who cheats and doesn’t keep his promises. But not me. I keep my vows, and I believe we made you a vow a very long time ago.”

“No.” He took a step forward without noticing, realisation crashing down on him. “No, you can’t!”

“Sherlock?” John asked, although his eyes (and his gun) never move from Moran. “What is it?”

“You should know, Johnny-boy. You were there, after all. He promised you Sherlock, that he would burn the heart out of you. I’m simply making good on that promise, because I owe it to him and I owe it to you. And right now, I seem to hold your heart squarely in my hand.”

It had been bad enough thinking that Hamish had been taken because he was valuable. But his son being taken because of him… Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face. This was all he had ever feared made flesh before him. “If you’ve hurt him…”

“Don’t worry, little Hamish is perfectly safe. Although that boy has a nasty temper on him. You would be proud. I’ve been saving him, just for this.”

“And this is?”

“Do you really need me to tell you that Sherlock? All the old rules stand, and you know how this plays out.”

John stepped forward, gun absolutely steady in his hands. “That’s not going to happen. You are not going to touch either of them, or so help me-“

Moran smiled. “Or so help you what? You won’t do a thing to me, not while I have your son. I fail to see how you come out of this on top. Oh that reminds me, you can tell your little secret agent friend to come out, or I will blow a hole through lover boy, faster than he can blink. As in _now_ , please Mr Bond.”

There was a pause, and for a moment Sherlock though the Bond was long gone, disappeared into the sunset like the rest of them. Spies were untrustworthy by nature after all. But then The Agent walked slowly out of the shadows, a look of absolute loathing on his face. Their eyes met for a moment, and Sherlock disparity tried to ask the silent question. Hamish? The Agent shook his head, and Sherlock felt dread wash over him.

“Jim was right, this friends business really will get you killed. You used to be such a good agent, Mr Bond, you really did. But now I have young Hamish, well, you’re just as useless as the rest of them.”

“So now what?” The Agent asked. “What happens next?”

“Well, Sherlock here is going to jump for a start, and properly this time. And I suppose I can’t let the doctor here go, but you could always be of use to me. I respect a military man of your skill, it would be such a shame to put that to waste. How about it? Do you want to shoot Johnny here and live? Or should I just put a hole through your skull right now?”

Sherlock watched, hardly daring to breathe. He had taken a risk in working with this man, trusting his experience and selfish intentions if nothing else to get their son to safety. If he had been wrong, then they were all going to pay the price for it. Beside him, John was frozen, his gun still on Moran but his eyes firmly on Bond. And Bond would be faster, if it came down to it, Sherlock was sure. If he took the gun Moran was offering, there would be absolutely nothing Sherlock could do in time. Bond’s face was unreadable, the cold mask of a field operative, as his fingers slowly inched towards the weapon. They stopped about an inch above it, and he muttered something too soft for Sherlock to hear.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Moran asked.

“I said _now_.”

Moran’s eyes narrowed, but before Sherlock could work out what he meant the stairwell behind them exploded. A rush of pure heat hit them. On autopilot, Sherlock lunged towards John, pulling the soldier to the ground as the fireball swelled, flames rising into the azure sky. When he looked up, Bond had pulled Moran’s arms behind his back, gun lying broken on the ground. A column of black smoke was rising up from where the stairwell had been, and in front of it…

“I am really fucking _tired_ ,” Hamish said, straightening his glasses as he stood, “Of people messing with my family. That doesn’t happen, understand?”

Sherlock stared at his son, in equal parts pride, relief and confusion. How in the hell had he managed that?

“And how stupid do you have to be?” Hamish continued, clearly not done with his rant directed at Moran, “To decide that taking on three Watson-Holmes and a double-0 agent is a good idea? Just out of curiosity, because you should have known how that would turn out. I mean, _really_ ”

“Do you want to do the honours, Q?” Bond asked, handing him something, and Sherlock noticed that he was missing a cufflink on his right sleeve. “007, it would be my genuine pleasure.” Hamish smiled and took the - was that a _pen_? He unclipped it, (clearly not a pen with those mechanics inside, more like a voltage emitter of some kind) and looked down at it for a moment.

“You know what…” Hamish put the lid back on and placed the item carefully back in his picket before deliberately stepping close to Moran. He paused for a moment, then pulled back his arm and swung his fist straight into his face in a perfect arc. Moran crumpled to the ground, and stayed down. His son turned to look at them all; Bond, who was clearly holding back laughter, John, who had his mouth wide open, and Sherlock who suddenly found himself incapable of speech.

“What?” Hamish asked.


	13. Epilogue

“Will you come back?”

Hamish looked up from his pint, startled at the abruptness of the question. But then again, Eve had never been one for subtly. It was a wonder she ever made it undercover.

“I don’t know,” he replied honestly.

“No-one would think any the worse of you.” she pressed on, a little more gently this time. “I mean, you were shot and kidnapped. You nearly died over there, and you’re not even a field agent. This stuff we do Q… it’s not pretty.”

No need to tell him that. He had woken more than once this week to the burn of an imaginary bullet, to rough hands of phantoms holding him down, to the creaking of a fan that isn't there. And the constant surveillance wasn't helping, whether from his parents who got twitchy whenever he left the flat, to the omnipotent Mycroft, to Bond whose invisible presence he would never have noticed if he hadn't been trained to do just that. He understood it, of course, but he was slowly suffocating under the weight of their concern. So when the message from Eve came, a simple _“It’s Friday, see you at eight?”_ he had jumped at the chance to attempt something normal. Even if Eve’s smile didn't quite reach her eyes tonight and her voice was uncharacteristically soft.

“It’s not that.” Hamish said finally (and it was only half a lie.) "It’s my family Eve, how easy it is for someone to hurt them through me. We thought it would be the other way round but… I don't know what I’m going to do.” he finished.

She looked at him for a moment, some of the awful concern gone from her eyes. “You can start by getting the next round.” she said finally. “Being officially dead for two days doesn't excuse you.”

He opened his mouth to argue, caught sight of the flash behind her eyes and grinned. “You’re a cruel woman, Moneypenny.” he said, rising and heading over to the bar. And only when his back was turned, hiding his face from her, did he stop holding the smile in place.

 

Walking home from Tesco's the day later (more normal, he was halfway to convincing his parents that normal helped), a black car pulled up along side him. Hamish kept walking, pointedly ignoring the CCTV cameras turning to follow him.

 

He liked this view, from the roof of a multi-story on Black Prince Road. It wasn't exactly plush, but the roof could only be accessed through the technicians’ stairwell, so at least privacy was guaranteed. That and the skyline of course. In the distance, the towers of the city glinted, where ordinary lives with ordinary dreams lived and worked. Parliament stood across the river, the very heart of Britain itself, and all he had ever striven to serve. Queen and country, he thought to himself and snorted. And of course, to the west, there was Vauxhall Cross itself. Hamish sighed, exhaling smoke into the crisp morning breeze. He didn’t smoke, just like Sherlock didn't smoke, yet here he was, fingers shaking only slightly as he exhaled. Funny, the places life takes you.

“I didn’t go through all that trouble just to watch you give yourself cancer.” a voice from behind him announced. Hamish rolled his eyes, exasperated but not all that surprised, if he was being honest. So much for privacy.

“To each, his own method of self-destruction.” he replied without bothering to turn around. “ _You_ drink yourself half to death, I smoke when I need to, and Eve kills off brain cells by watching those God-awful reality TV shows. It’s all the same in the end.”

He sensed, rather than heard the agent move, but it was still a surprise when he felt his breath on the back of his neck, warm in the morning chill. Still he didn't turn around, eyes fixed on the horizon, and took another drag.

“Hell of a view up here, I’ll give you that.” Bond commented lightly. “Not sure about that ugly concrete thing over there though. What do you think about it?”

Hamish didn't have to look to know what he was talking about, nor listen to the tone of his voice to know he wasn't discussing architectural features. Bond never did anything without a purpose, and he had hardly  come here to make small talk.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “It’s rather a stain on the rest of the city, I suppose. But then again, would the rest of the city be so beautiful without it there?”

“It wouldn’t be standing if that’s what you mean.”

Hamish smiled slightly, thinking of two men sitting in an art gallery all that time ago. One was still avoiding philosophy or looking for inner beauty in anything it would seem. But James Bond was never meant to be that man, just as Hamish was never meant for the life of a field agent. No matter his skill set or his upbringing, his patriotism or his willing to protect his own, he would never be able to do it.

“I’m not going back out there, Bond. I can’t risk my family getting hurt because of me.”

The morning was very still, the rush of people and cars and sirens seemingly very distant from up there. Hamish could feel that stillness between them now, in the silence of the agent. They hadn't discussed what had happened between them in Spain, they had hardly spoken full stop since John had manhandled him onto a plane that would take them to a real medical facility, and Hamish could feel the unsaid hanging in the air. If what he feared was true, that it had just been a moment of adrenalin and high emotions and James Bond being James Bond, then he would just have to find a way to live with that. Because he owed this man far too much to ever hold expectations of him, no matter what the heart may want.

Finally he spoke, his voice surprisingly brittle. “What will you do?”

“What will I do?” Hamish turned to look at him for the first time, at the eyes bright in the morning sun. “I’m going to do what I do every day. I’ll sit at my desk and drink tea and make you ridiculous toys and hack some files and argue with M and save the world while I’m at it. You didn't think I was going to trust you with England’s safety on your own, I hope?”

“I did wonder.” And Hamish was almost sure that was relief written across the agent’s face, and the closest thing to an admission of doubt he was ever going to get. Relief, and something else, something so human that he had only ever seen flickers of through Bond’s cold mask or false smiles. And then, then Hamish knew.

“Then you’re an idiot. I chose the war. I think I always have, one way or another but it’s going to be on my terms from now on. I chose the war…” He leant forward, and brushed his lips against Bond’s, the lightest of touches. The last time had been blood pounding and need and fire and now and fear. This was the crispness of the morning, and the promise that there would be time, later, for everything good and bad that would follow. “… and I chose this.”

Bond smiled softly into his skin. “I think that can be arranged.”

 

“I don’t like it.” Sherlock murmured, low enough so his voice wouldn't carry into the kitchen. “It’s not healthy, it’s certainly not safe for him, and-“

“Sherlock,” John replied, taking his hand gently in an effort to sooth his husband. “He’s like you. When everything goes to hell, you need The Work to keep yourself sane. He needs his purpose, love, same as his father.”

They both glanced through the doors, where Hamish was sitting at the table, hunched over a laptop. He was engrossed in the rows of code flashing down the screen, hair still ruffled from sleep. For a moment, it was as though he was twelve again, glasses hanging crookedly under a fringe that still curled slightly, and lost in his latest puzzle. Then John blinked and the child was gone, a man in his place. For good or ill, Hamish’s life was his own now (in truth it had never been theirs to begin with) and so were his choices. If he wanted to go back to the world of shadows, then that was what would happen.

Some of Hamish’s _other_ choices, on the other hand, John would still take issue with. He may not have Sherlock’s incredible skills of observation, but he wasn't blind. He could see clear as day the way Bond’s eyes followed his son around the room, and how Hamish’s habit of looking sad when he thought no one was watching disappeared when the agent was in the room. He still didn't trust the man, not by a long shot, but for now he thought Hamish deserved a bit of happiness in his life. If he kept one eye firmly on Bond, that was just coincidence. And if he had taken the man aside the day Hamish had told them he was going back to work, that had just been a friendly chat, honest. John smiled slightly at the memory.

_“I never thanked you, you know.” he had said. “For Spain. And… and for being there for him.”_

_“Unnecessary. I didn't do it for you.”_

_An awkward silence descended, and John had realised this wouldn’t be one of those small-talk relationships._

_“So,” the agent smiled. “Is this the bit where you say you kill me if I hurt him?”_

_“Or words to that affect.” he agreed._

_Bond smirked. “I’d like to see you try.”_

_John simply crossed his jumper-clad arms, looked up at Bond, and raised an eyebrow, and enjoyed the smug feeling of satisfaction as the smile slid from the double-0’s face._

“But it’s not safe, not for him.” Sherlock protest brought him back to the present. He still sounded worried, though John knew his husband had heard the truth behind his worlds.

“When has he ever been safe?” John countered. “We could lock him in a padded cell and Hamish would still find a way to run into trouble. It’s like he actively seeks it out or something.”

“Which would make him like his Dad.”

John looked up at Sherlock, grey eyes smiling softly in a way they hadn't since a secret agent had arrived on their doorstep in the middle of a rainstorm. And he knew they would be okay.This wouldn’t be easy or simple - how could it be with a consulting detective, a secret agent, a doctor who went to war, a boy who could topple empires from their living room and the British Government thrown into the mix? - but life had never been either of those things for them. He for one would have gone mad with boredom long ago if it had been, and if ever there were people who felt the same way, then they were the ones sitting in this flat with him. And whatever came next, whatever the world thought it could throw at them, they would stare it down the way they always had.

As a family.

 

The gentle hum of computers filled the air, along with the tap of fingers on keyboards, murmured discussions over blueprints and the muffled sounds of explosions from the labs. It was oddly soothing, the every day white noise Hamish hadn't noticed he missed. The extra squeeze Eve had given his hand as she walked with him down to the his office that morning hadn't been strictly professional, nor was the standing ovation he had received upon entering the room. Not that he didn't appreciate the gestures, but this was his branch, and he had a smooth operation to run.

Today was going to be business as usual, nothing more or less.

He booted up his laptop (safely back from Spain and no worse for ware. Thank God, it had taken him months to write some of those programs), and began to compile a list of jobs in his head. The branch had managed without him, of course, but the work of a quartermaster was never done. He pulled up the information on the latest assignment to land in his inbox, the theft of several rare materials from labs around the world that could be used to build chemical weapons. A standard Monday morning then.

“Our agent will enter the offices at 8:32 local time,” an analyst told him, handing over the necessary files. “That’s in about five minutes time. He should have time to locate the relevant documents before Mr Blake returns from his reception.”

Hamish thanked him, scanning down the mission details, and smirked slightly when he saw the name of the operative. Trust him to land an assignment in the Caribbean. Perhaps next time Hamish would pull some strings and get him sent to Siberia, just to see the look on his face. Almost exactly five minutes later, his earpiece crackled into life.

“I’ve done a sweep and it looks all clear.”

“Nothing at our end. You’re good to go, 007.”

He could picture the slight smirk half a world away as Bond spoke. “You ready, Q?”

Hamish looked around the branch, his branch, at the people England was counting on. He sat down behind the top desk, straighten his mug and tweaked his crooked glasses. This was the war he had chosen, and this was his place.

“Oh God, yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s all folks!
> 
> A massive thank you to anyone who’s taken the time to read or comment this story, it wouldn’t have gotten beyond a one-shot without your encouragement, so you guys are amazing, I mean it.
> 
> As always, feel free to leave thoughts, suggestions, or just pop up and say hi, and I hope you enjoyed reading.  
> x
> 
> \-----------------------------------------
> 
> Writer's note:
> 
> Hello my lovelies! So I wasn't going to write a sequel. I really wasn't. And then it just sort of happened...  
> Blame the recent trailers and Bond fever if you like, but I'm working on a new Hamish story over half term (although it will completely ignore Spectre because I'm far too lazy to work that in!)   
> See you all soon - love always, SnowHeart xx


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